One Fateful Night
by loriimonsterr
Summary: Sam's almost fourteen years old, and as such is perfectly capable of kicking some demonbutt. Dean however, has his own thoughts on Sam joining the dangerous struggle. But will he be able to save him from being caught in the crossfire?
1. Sooner or Later

**warning:** language is inevitable in the not even trying to avoid it sense.  
**A/N:** this should be relatively short, no more than three to four chapters and I have but one left and it is already in the final stages. translation being that this will not be withheld for a month, but completed in perhaps the course of several weeks. enjoy and please, my god, **review to keep me going!!!  
****need to know:** this is to buy your time until chapter ten of _Gone_, which should be up while you await chapter two of this brandspankingnew humdinger of a fic(okay, thats stretching it a bit, but I happen to enjoy tinkering away inside my boys' heads and completely and totally go there in this one), is finally released. I cannot begin to tell you all how truly sorry I am for taking so goshdarn hacking long to even go near the thing. excuses are like noses though, everybody's got one, and that includes me. short version: I was busy with summery plans of craziness that involved little of the interior of my home or computer access, a bit of recent stress due to the school year sneaking up on me as of late, and the fact that I totally crashed, burned, and had a meltdown of a writersblock that caused me to hate and fear the stupid story and totally stole my motivation. two words being it sucked. hard.  
thanks for helping me find my muse by the way. you guys know who you are. glompsyouall  
**also:** when I see that someone added a story of mine to their alert but didn't voice an opinion, I'm a little bit saddened. please let me know how you feel about what I write if you take the time to read it. cool? cool.

**Chapter One:  
**

"It's not fair."

Dean, one arm hung in the sleeve of his jacket, turned to face his lanky little brother Sam. He raised an eyebrow before shrugging the worn coat over both shoulders and abandoned his search for car keys to saunter toward the sullen teen. "What's not fair?"

Sam shuffled his feet, a tinge of red coating his cheeks. Dean wasn't supposed to hear that.

"Nothing."

Dean hummed as if in deep thought, obviously not in the mood to discuss Sam's personal vendetta against what was and wasn't fair.

Sam continued to stare at the floor, hands wrung behind his back. A mop of lengthy brown hair hid his downcast hazel green eyes. He was tall for his age, maybe an inch, two at the most, shorter than his older sibling who sported equally green eyes and short, dark hair.

Dean was back to hunting keys, full attention lost. "If it's about the gig –"

Sam groaned, interrupting Dean's droning voice. He plopped into a creaky stool and rested his head against the cool countertop separating the minuscule kitchen area from the living space that consisted of two queens and an adjacent bathroom. It was nice compared to most rat holes they stayed in, but it wasn't anywhere close to a home either. Just another motel on the road to wherever the hell it was they were going.

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean mumbled, retiring from his search of the mattress to grope behind the television.

Sam grunted in response, already tiring of his brother's inability to have a genuine conversation. And yet he couldn't fight the way his lips turned up at the ends or find the right reasons to open his mouth.

"Look," Dean pursued the conversation with bleak interest. He went to his knees to look beneath the crack between the television stand and the floor. "I get where you're coming from, I do, but –"

"But," Sam muttered loud enough for Dean to make out before turning away from him to stare down the counter. There was always a 'but,' wasn't there?

"But," Dean continued, a hint of irritation and something else in his voice; sympathy maybe. "I still think Dad knows what he's talking about."

"Right," Sam breathed, too weighed down by the swarming emotions to put much thought into what he was saying. Because Dean always thought for himself, made up his own mind, and took Sam's side, right? Sam's mouth twitched eagerly to form a scowl. He couldn't think of anything further from the truth.

"Come on, Sam." And now Dean was standing, gawking around the room as if the nightstand had something better to say. The nightstand however, didn't voice a word of it and Sam and Dean were alone in the confined space of a motel room awaiting the return of their father. He raked a stool away from the counter and took a hesitant seat next to Sam.

Sam shot him a look but didn't respond. He didn't really have to.

Dean rested his head in his hand, elbow against the table. "It's not like he doesn't think you can do it, he just doesn't think this is the right time to start."

Sam glowered, turning his head to plant a hard glare before once again focusing his rage on the countertop. "You were younger than me your first hunt," he shot back. It wasn't that Sam really wanted to begin a life of hazardous, completely unrewarding labor against all things supernatural so much as he was tired of being utterly useless. Lately he was tired of everything; tired of researching only to be told he couldn't lend a hand; tired of grating his teeth without knowing what was happening to Dad, to his brother; most of all he was sick to his stomach of watching them come back covered in bruises, never knowing if next time they wouldn't be able to come back at all. But for all Dean knew, he wanted a piece of the action and not much more.

"Yeah, and that was a model success, wasn't it?" Dean grinned, a look of mild amusement spreading across his features as he thought back almost six years to a time when he was twelve and Sam was as obnoxious as eight year olds came.

Sam opened his mouth, felt his throat tighten, and closed it again. Dean's first hunt had been the furthest thing from a success than he thought physically possible. He didn't understand how Dean could find a shred of humor in the memory of spraining a wrist, nearly puncturing a lung, and breaking three bones in the course of a single night. He shuddered, remembering the way Dean had failed to contain the pain. He could still hear Dean screaming when he thought about it.

"Point taken," Sam agreed. "But I'm almost fourteen and it's gotta happen sooner or later." He stole a quick glance to Dean. That might have been a little unnecessary to point out but hopefully it was affective enough.

"Not with a shapeshifter it won't." Dean shot down that sliver of hope before Sam could take another breath. "Not your first anyway," Dean grinned, hoping to alleviate some of Sam's anger.

"What difference does it make?" Sam hissed, dropping his head to his folded arms in resignation and distaste. Everything was dangerous and nothing was less of a threat. He didn't have to say it for Dean to know it was there.

Dean's smile faltered a little. He turned his head, hiding his face from Sam. "Good question." His voice was smaller than usual, almost defeated.

Sam should have recognized the declining barriers surrounding his brother, should have jumped at the chance. He would regret dismissing it; because that's exactly what he did. "Yeah, it was." He waved his hand in an obvious sort of way. "So why can't this be the first? Better now than later when I'm less prepared."

Dean swiveled to face Sam, his own expression unreadable as ever. He narrowed his eyes as if sizing up what Sam was really capable of. He squirmed. "No." Dean was out of the chair and investigating the second mattress in a single stride. It was as if the conversation had simply never occurred.

Sam opened his mouth, ready protest being completely ignored, when the familiar sound of a motel keycard being inserted reached his ears. He slumped in his stool. His only chance of convincing Dad was convincing Dean. He remained hunched at the counter, pondering ways he could prove himself for the next hunt to keep his mind off the impending possibilities of this one.

One argument, a found set of keys, and half an hour later and they were gone.

Sam sighed in the way only stubborn thirteen year olds bent on conquering every form of rebellion they could possibly manage could and let his head connect with the counter.

"It's not fair."

---

Dean shrugged the heavy duffel off his shoulder and into the open trunk, unfazed by the amount of weaponry crammed into the small space, and closed it with a resounding thud. He turned to rest against the cool metal of the Impala and took to examining the peeling red paint of the ground floor door that led to their motel room. He released a breath, content to watch it billow in the chilled February air.

"_What difference does it make?"_

Dean stared openly at the door, trying to distract himself with the way the number had swayed to an odd angle against the contrasting wood. That wasn't a fix likely to be on the top of anyone's to-do list. And people wondered why cheap motels get so cheap in the first place. It's only a matter of time.

"_It's gotta happen sooner or later."_

Damn, Sammy was persistent. He licked his lips to ease the dry bite of wind.

Screw it. Dean stood, unable to keep his mind from the unavoidable and made his way to the driver side. Dad had actually loosened his ass long enough to give him the thing and had insisted on taking separate vehicles since. He clicked his tongue, impatient, anxious, a twinge of adrenaline already upon him. A final click and a grunt informed him that John had finished reloading his own gun; silver bullets were apparently the trick. Shapeshifters. The world really was fucked. He slid into the seat, starting the engine with a steady hand and soaring spirits. God, he loved this car.

"_It's an antique," Sam barely lifted his head from the passenger window, a lazy grin across his face._

"_It's style, Sammy," Dean shot back, a look of disgust marring his features._

"_No, it's junk," Sam corrected calmly, resting his head back against the window, "recyclable metal waste and nothing – ow!"_

Dean smirked. His car, a waste? Sam was a waste. The smile faded as he pictured Sam sitting next to him, about to face a shapeshifter or some other form of evil that could inflict bodily harm. What difference did it really make, anyway? Who's to say a shapeshifter is anymore more dangerous than your average casper cranked up from friendly to malevolent? Dean grimaced, angry at himself for being so distracted. Dad was already clearing the parking lot and he was sitting in a cranked car visiting memory lane and taking a trip to the future. He wondered vaguely why Sam had a habit of claming up just when Dean needed to hear his voice and never shutting up, even inside his head, the very moment he needed to get away. He eased away from the motel, mind set on relaxing in preparation for what was coming.

He took a left, tailing the black GMC to the tiny town's personal monster. He needed to focus, that's what he needed to do. Being distracted by stupid things like nerves is what gets you killed. He screwed his face in contempt. Were nerves for what would undoubtedly happen really that stupid? He knew Sam would have to come along one day, knew he couldn't keep him away from hunting forever, but somehow didn't expect it to come so soon. Dean wasn't even sure that Sam really wanted to, just knew he should, that one day he would. Then again maybe it was the way he always looked up, a touch of fear in his sleep deprived eyes as he tried to steal a once over for injuries when he thought neither Dean nor Dad were looking every time they returned from a hunt. Maybe it wasn't something Sam was looking forward to, but something he needed. Dean had been there, had stood in those too-tight sneakers past midnight, waiting out Dad and praying he'd beat the call from the hospital. At least on the hunt you knew what was happening, maybe even had a chance to stop it. He felt a pang of guilt when that information didn't change his mind. All he could think about was how badly things could go wrong and how easy it was to fuck up and have someone get hurt. Or die. He blinked once, twice, and shook his head. He needed to focus.

But he couldn't get the image of Sam with his own broken bones riding shotgun, just waiting to make it back to the next motel to get stitched up and pass out.

He bit back the fear that came along with that image. He needed to focus. He had to focus.

**--- **

alsoalso: chapter two will undoubtedly be much, much longer. all the good stuff is yet to come, so ride it out, will ya? 


	2. Time Stopping

**warning:** teenspeak is to be expected. innocents, avert ye eyes and walk thyself away.  
**A/N:** phew. chapter two, as you can see, is significantly longer than the intro chapter, and hopefully to your liking.  
**thanks:** all of those who reviewed are amazing. alert notifications are swell, but please, if you take the time to come back and complete the story or add it to your favorites, I would really appreciate it if you could drop me a line and give me an opinion. thanks again, you guys.  
**personal vendetta:** totally resolved, because you guys rock.  
**recap:** after failing to convince Dean to of his ability to assist hunting one measly shapeshifter, Sam is left alone to his own devises in an empty motel room while Dean worries over the possibilities Sam's first 'real' hunt will have the fateful day it arrives.

**Chapter Two:  
**  
Sam drummed his fingers against the countertop, incapable of holding in his restlessness. He glared at the sorry excuse for an alarm clock that sat precariously on the edge of the nightstand, just waiting to topple off. Red numbers illuminated the surrounding area ever so slightly as they blinked in sync. 11:36 and they had been gone for just under three hours. He waited until the six blinked into a seven before tearing his eyes from the sight. Staring down time won't make it go any faster.

He stood on achy knees, stiff from sitting in the same position since the door shut behind his dad and brother. The image of Dean pacing brazenly back and forth, utterly helpless to stay put for longer than five minutes, shouting about how ludicrous staying seated for three hours straight without so much as a fly to distract himself was invaded his mind. He absentmindedly stretched a bit as his eyes scanned the room for the remote. Dean had a nasty habit of hiding them. _Better to enforce martial law of cable_ he had said with that comical, classy smile of his. Sam smirked as he spotted the end of the crusty remote sticking between their bed's mattress and frame. Too obvious, Dean, way too obvious. He tugged it free, raising a corner of his upper lip in disgust. Were past residents brutal to this piece of plastic or what? He resisted the urge to rinse the thing, sat squarely on the edge of the bed, and switched the dusty television on with the push of a button.

Ah, the simplicity that was cable.

With a bad connection.

Sam scowled as channel after channel refused to last longer than fifteen seconds before giving way to the never ending battle of black and white specks of static. He wondered dimly whether or not it was normal for people to envision such a battle when static came to mind. Probably not. More than half an hour later, about ten minutes of one soap after another, give or take fifteen commercials and single clip of news and Sam had exhausted his patience with the thing. He left the television on static, utilizing mute, and tossed the remote in disgust. Cable be damned.

He leaned into the bed, stomach up to the water-marked ceiling. Maybe this was nice compared to those other rat holes they had stayed at, but now that he thought about it, it wasn't really all the nice after all. He picked cracks and stains out of the ceiling, the wall, the rugged carpet. He didn't even want to think about the origin of half of those and just shut his eyes and tried doubly hard not to imagine the countless body fluids each bedspread had seen in its day.

Sam was bored. No denying it.

He glanced behind him, tilting the world upside down to get a view of the alarm clock still blinking blocky, red numbers. 12:42 and it was officially into the AM. It was about a minute past four hours now. He sighed, returning his gaze back to the ceiling. Sometimes hunts were quick, so easy his dad made it look, well, easy. Other times, most times, it took a while and involved getting banged the hell up. Dad sporting a shiner and Dean licking the blood off a split lip found its way into Sam's head, reminding him of the way even 'easy' hunts went awry. He shook his head, unconsciously sinking farther into the comforter for some means of comfort as memories of countless nights of waiting up only to be relieved and broken all at once kept his palms glued to his eyelids as if they could somehow shut them out.

Dean limping, actually allowing Dad to support his weight, a coat of crimson drenching his pants leg and staining the carpet with every inching step forced Sam to roll to his side and hold tight to his stomach. It hurt to remember some things. Dad came next, barely conscious, draped over Dean shoulders as he shouted orders to treat the gaping gash across their father's temple. Sam's hands almost shook as bad as they had that night just by thinking about how hard it had been to locate antiseptic, let alone slow down enough to stitch the thing. No, Dean had done that. Dean took care of things like that, somehow always kept his head. Dean must keep a level head because he had been there, had it happen once or four times. And he had. Dean took more hits than Dad most times, not because he was slow, and not because he wasn't ready, but because of the stupid hero mentality of his. Sam curled his legs in to his stomach, suddenly cold. Sam couldn't stand Dean but couldn't really stand no Dean at all either. Hell, he couldn't handle no Dean if he tried. Not for long anyway.

It almost hurt to imagine a life with just his dad and him. Sam furrowed his brow at the way that came out. It wasn't that he hated Dad, was it? No, it was only sometimes that he hated him. It was just the way things were. Sam and Dad didn't mix too well and couldn't bear too many hours without crossing a line and throwing some verbal punches. Sam actually rolled his eyes as he corrected verbal with physical. That's when Dean would step in, always at the sidelines only to step right between them, back to Sam, ready to stare down, fight if it came down to it, the monster that was their father. He could remember the first time, maybe four years ago, when Dean had needed to go there. Sam almost smiled a little at that memory.

"_Dad," Dean warned, taking a completely confident step between the towering man and his fuming, now trembling, little brother. He even spread his hand behind his back, beckoning a hand he received immediately, long fingers intertwining with Sam's, squeezing reassuringly. It had said 'it's okay' and 'he doesn't mean it' all at once._

"_Get out of the way," Dad growled, attempting a futile glare in the direction of Sam who now stood huddled behind Dean, face full of shirt as he hid deep in Dean's protective back._

"_He didn't mean it," was all he said._

"_He knew what he was saying." Sam thought his throat would spill out from his mouth before he could stop it._

"_He's ten," Dean has retorted, a bit of anger piercing his assertive but always calm voice before breaking into full blown sarcasm, "and you're what? Sixteen?"_

Sam could have laughed at what came next, though at the time it certainly wasn't a laughing matter. Dean earned himself a bruised jaw for that one. If he remembered correctly he spent half the night too afraid to leave his room and face his dad, torn between kicking Dean for laughing at him and never letting go for taking a punch for him. He knew it was his own fault for beginning his long and never ending life of unreasonableness that made him who he was. Dad was a complete mule, and if possible, Sam was a bigger one. Dean was equally stubborn and more than capable of standing his own ground, probably better than Dad and Sam combined, but kept it silent, always hidden. Sam didn't blame his father for wanting to take a swing from time to time. He considered physical action himself, but with no such luck. Dean would pull him away with a sharp reprimand or occasional thump to the head before he had the chance to throw a punch. Or maybe he pulled him back to keep him from being such an easy target. Sam was, as Dean pointed out as frequently as possible, pigheaded, smart, and immeasurably stupid when it came to arguments. Thus creating their dad's one and only equal.

Sam grinned, enjoying the memories distracting him from the worries of the present and took a peek at the clock. Five and a half hours and counting. His smile faded. Where were they? Was something wrong? How long did Dad say they'd be this time anyway?

And before he could stop himself, Dean's first hunt came back to mind.

_A thud against the door and the unmistakable sound of ragged breathing pulled Sam's attention from his cartoon to the rotted door. He knew that sound; the sound of someone choking on their own blood. It wasn't something a lot of eight year olds knew about, but something Sam had heard on an occasion or two from his Dad. He stared hard at the door, unsure of who was there, uncertain about grabbing the gun. Before he had to think too hard the buzz of a keycard and the whoosh of the door swinging inward brought forth his Dad and a bundle of blue, brown, and a startling amount of crimson in his arms._

"_Door." His voice was soft, different. He scrambled past his dad to the open door and hot summer air. He fisted the knob and stuck his head out, completely baffled by the missing presence of Dean, and pulled it to with an added click of a lock. He turned to face his Dad, full on congratulatory speech bubbling in his mouth when he saw the bundle, now spread carefully over the closest bed, move and wondered if he'd ever be able to speak again. He swayed on spot, meeting the door with his back to keep from toppling over._

"_Dean?"_

_Dean, however, did not respond. He was fighting for any means of consciousness and failing miserably, oblivious to the sounds around him. He moaned, unable to hold back the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. Sam's round eyes darted from Dean to Dad, Dad to Dean, finally settling on staring down the crimson stains splotching his brother in mismatched patterns and random areas. Dad said something, a hand in Dean's hair before rising and making his way towards Sam. He paused, only briefly, hoisted Sam to his feet and sat him on the bed. "Watch him," he said in that strange, soft voice, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the night._

_Sam managed to take his eyes off the door and absorb the mess that was his older brother. But it couldn't be his older brother. Dean was bigger than this, wasn't this pale, didn't have this much white tinge to his lips. Sam shifted his weight, sliding closer to the heavy-breathing form, and settled Indian style by his stomach. "Dean?" Sam's hand ghosted over his forehead, uncertain of whether touching him would hurt him all that much. "Dean?"_

"_Mm –" was all that he could manage. He didn't open his eyes which had long since shut, clamped tight for fear of added pain, but twitched his fingers._

"_Yeah, Dean," Sam gulped, trying desperately to fight back the bit of dinner threatening a hasty exist through the mouth, "it's Sam."_

_Dean's eyes blinked, quickly, before clamping shut again. His body twitched, eager to curl in on itself but somehow incapable. He howled, biting his tongue to hold back the end of the cry. Sam sat poised, ready for action but uncertain of the kind. He didn't know what to do, or how to help. He gripped Dean's still twitching fingers, tugging his arm into his lap as gently as he could. His eyes blinked again, unfocused before shutting, opening again, and shutting. Finally managing to keep them open long enough to take in his surroundings, Dean's heavy eyes traveled slowly, far too slowly to be normal, to Sam's and he didn't think he could take it. Sam was crying before he could stop himself, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and plastering hair to his neck. Dean just looked, no expression, blinking slow but thinking hard._

"_S'OK," Dean choked, half garbled as a thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Sam wanted to cry harder, wanted to throw himself on Dean and not let go, but knew the way his shirt was torn and how the red spot kept growing that it would be a bad idea. He just shook his head. No, Dean, it's not okay._

_Dean blinked, slowly, a suddenly shudder racking through his body and disturbing his wounds. He cried out, unable to defeat the pain, and shut his eyes again. His hand tightened on impulse, squeezing Sam's back. Sam just waited, wondering where the hell Dad had gone to, and kept his eyes locked on Dean's eyelids. Eventually his body calmed and his grip loosened enough to put feeling back in Sam's tiny fingers. Dean was breathing different now, barely at all._

"_Dean?" Sam's voice was cracking and he couldn't stop it. "Dean, please don't go to sleep." He squeezed gently on his callused fingers. "What if you don't wake up?"_

_And Dean's eyes were on his, a sad sense of acceptance about him. Sam just scooted closer, pulling on Dean's limp arm to rest his hand against his cheek, wet with tears, and begged with his eyes. Dean blinked again, closing his eyes slowly like they hurt too much to close, hurt more to open, and didn't raise them again. His chest rose and fell rose and fell, paused for a moment, rose and fell. Sam just cried, Dean's unmoving hand still held firmly to his face as if it would somehow make everything better. Dean's hand was too cold and he knew it wasn't supposed to get that icy._

"_Please wake up." Sam begged over and over again, unaware of his dad now tearing Dean's clothes, quickly peeling the sticky material from the wounds, wincing in turn, thankful of his son's blessed unconsciousness. He was mopping up the blood, pressing down with a warm towel, spooked by how quickly it turned red with blood. Sam just sat there transfixed and silent with Dean's hand back in his lap, fingers wrapped around them softly. He wasn't watching Dad, wasn't even sure he was really there. One minute Dean was quiet, too still to still be breathing, the next he was screaming, back arched, clear liquid draining to either side of his chest, pooling beneath him. He took his eyes off Dean, writhing in misery, just long enough to see his dad screw the top back on the bottle of clear liquid. "Had to," was all he offered, placing a hand on Dean's chest, mindful of his injury and pressed him back to the bed. Sam swore he saw tears in his eyes._

Sam hugged his knees, glaring at the stupid red door across the room, opposite of his bed. He didn't want to remember that night. He didn't want to acknowledge the way his throat tightened every time he even thought about mentioning it. He had spent fifteen minutes in that motel room, watching his dad clean wounds, make temporary adjustments, and then haul him to an emergency room. It had been one of the longest car rides Sam could ever remember taking. It was by far the longest wait he'd ever spent in a hospital. He recalled falling asleep against his dad's shoulder after the first three hours passed with no news.

Sam rolled to a more comfortable position against the bed, checking the clock in desperation. He needed something to distract him, to take his mind of the state his dad or Dean could be in. The red numbers shone three in the morning. He sat, panic sinking in before he could control it. Seven hours wasn't normal. He stood, too anxious to stay seated. He threw an accusing glare toward the door. Why hadn't it opened to a drowsy Dad and cocky Dean?

He stood against the wall, hands in his hair, too tired to pace, too scared to sleep, and sank to the floor. "Where are you?"

And as if by some bizarre twist of fate, a cosmic hiccup of luck, maybe even god, there was the familiar sound of a motel keycard being inserted into the door and answering his question.

---

No one ever really talks about how it feels to wake up from being unconscious with a lump on the back of your head. Everyone always focuses on the fact that people woke up at all and had the will power to wake up long enough to fall back down. They should be talking about how loud the ringing was and how muffled it left everything else. They should talk about the pain, because honestly, that shit hurts.

Dean groaned, unsure of what was up and what was down. It was dark, pitch black, without a sliver of light to guide him from wherever he was. He blinked and saw a tiny spark of yellow glow, and then it was dark again. What the hell was that? He blinked a second time, trying to ignore the way the light stung his eyes. So there was light. Then why was it still dark? He opened his eyes, suddenly aware that it was always dark when you had them shut. He was also uncomfortably aware of that fact that he wasn't semiconscious in a heap on the ground, but semiconscious, knees bent beneath him, strapped to a wooden support beam by scratchy rope knotting his hands together behind his back. Great.

"Good, you're up." And wasn't that rough, short tempered, familiar sound better than anything he'd ever heard?

"Dad?" He didn't like the way he barely managed to rasp an audible call but couldn't exactly do anything about it.

"In a sense," John droned as he came into view. He paused a few feet in front of Dean but didn't make an effort to release his eldest son, just locked his hands behind his back and smiled. Dean's mouth was suddenly dry as he gaped at the tall figure that was, but somehow wasn't, his dad. He had to think, had to get the image of his real dad bleeding on the floor somewhere in this godforsaken house out of his head. He swallowed, keeping it as normal as he could despite the growing knot residing in his gut.

"In a sense?" Dean echoed. He failed to keep his voice from hitching. He didn't want to admit what it was that he was seeing anymore than he didn't want it admitted for him. Play along. Don't give it away, Winchester. Play along.

"In every way I guess you could say," he thought aloud. "As of now anyway." There was suddenly a knife in his hand that Dean had never seen before and the ropes holding him against the beam felt tighter than ever. This guy wasn't even pretending to be his dad. He was telling Dean exactly who and what he was. That was a bad sign if he'd ever seen one.

"Hunters," the shapeshifter muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

Dean opened his mouth, thought better of the verbal assault, and shut it. If this thing wanted to talk, he'd let it talk. It gave him time to fiddle with the ropes, and Dean knew he would seriously need that time. Getting out of jams was a certain specialty of the Winchesters, but when it was the only knot Dean had never been able to escape, it was like the world had already ended. He bit his tongue to avoid screaming in anger. This thing had tied him up with one of his dad's specials.

"He expected more of you, Dean," he shook his head again, brandishing the knife as if it were an accusing finger, "much more."

Dean stopped twisting the rope. His eyes wandered to his father's. How did this thing know his name?

"Getting yourself in a nasty spot like this won't exactly make the cut, kiddo."

Dean was tugging on the ropes now. It wouldn't work, he knew it wouldn't do anything more than blister his wrists and cut his skin, but he didn't care. It felt better than pretending he didn't want to tear him apart.

John but not John just nodded at his effort, twiddling the knife between his fingers. The bastard was toying with him. Dean knew it; couldn't stand it. He resigned himself to silence, teeth bared.

"No comeback?" The shapeshifter was closer than Dean liked, leaning down to eyesight and narrowing his eyes. He might have looked like his dad and he might have sounded like his dad, he even smelled like whiskey and ammo with a hint of leather, but it wasn't his dad.

"Come on, Dean," he prodded, knife swaying dangerously close to his chest, "where's that classic put down?" he was an inch away from Dean's face, a twisted grin his dad was incapable of making spread across his features. He fisted the knife, bringing it against Dean's chin and raking it slowly down his jaw line. Dean couldn't help but flinch and pull back, head against the splintering wood. He could feel the sticky substance of blood roll down his throat.

Maybe it was just his time. Maybe his dad had really gotten away, or wasn't hurt bad enough to be in any real trouble. He could take Sam and they could forget about Dean and that would be fine. Maybe he was just being weak by admitting defeat, but when a knife was pressed to your jugular and you couldn't so much as lift a finger in defense, you were pretty much screwed.

Then the knife was gone and the shapeshifter was back to standing.

"Hunters," he murmured again, throwing a glare in Dean's direction. "Do you know how many hunters have come after me?"

Dean didn't know. Dean didn't care. "Not enough?" He had said it without really thinking.

He laughed and Dean cringed. His dad didn't laugh like that. "I guess not," he agreed. "But your dad," he grinned a little and pointed to himself, "made it a little more interesting. Who brings his kid on a hunt anyway? I guess it doesn't matter. He shouldn't have brought anyone. It makes it much more fun when they do though."

Dean was back to working on his ropes, keeping eye contact and not really liking the direction the one sided conversation was going.

"It's so easy, you know?" He didn't really expect Dean to answer, did he? Dean bit back the comment. Concentrate on the ropes. He must not have expected an answer because after a short pause he was talking again, more to himself than Dean. "Turning people against each other I mean," he continued. "Making the last thing they see the last thing they thought possible. Take you for example, kiddo. Imagine your surprise when you just happen to see me, your dad, take this knife and run it through. The faces are always the same, words the same. Begs, pleas, fucking cries for mercy..." His expression became a little darker. "As if I ever got a chance at that."

Dean was trying not to listen. The thought of dying with his dad's face inches in front of his, ignoring everything he said, made his stomach churn. It wasn't Dad, it was some psycho shapeshifter with one too many mental breaks pretending to be his dad. He wasn't even doing a good job. He just wished he'd quit saying kiddo. How did he even know about that? Dad only called him kiddo to mess with him, make fun of the way he called Sammy that. Dean's heart rate picked up. Did he know about Sam too?

"So I figure this time we can make it special, mix things up a bit," John's face was back to hovering an inch from Dean's, "make it personal. I always liked family reunions. I can tell your dad's not so fond of the meaning though. Maybe he'll catch the importance this time." He smiled again. "Then again, three's a crowd, right?"

Dean just stared. He didn't know about Sam. Why would Dad have talked about him? Why would he have talked about any of this? They had to have missed something, had to have made a mistake. There was no way a crazy ass like this could know this much and not know about Sam. But he couldn't know about Sam. Dean begged that god in the sky to take a break from answering little old ladies and make divine intervention more than fairytale. This thing could not know about his baby brother, he couldn't know about Sam.

"I'm sure Sammy's miserable with worry though," he hissed, "and we can't have that, can we?"

This wasn't happening. He wasn't saying what Dean thought he was saying. That meant too many fucked up things that all came back to the same fucked up answer. He couldn't breathe. It was time stopping and his heart breaking. He couldn't breathe. Dean's eyes went from his father's smile to his stern, unfailing eyes. But it wasn't Dad. Dad was dead. What made him think Dad was dead? He didn't know; didn't want to know was a better answer. Then there was Sammy's stupid smile swimming inside his head and it brought tears to his stupid eyes. He blinked them back. He had to focus. Sam's smile faded to a frown. He had to concentrate. How was he supposed to concentrate when he couldn't breathe? Find a way, Winchester, find a goddamn way. Except now Sam wasn't even moving, just lying there, cold as ice.

"Stay away from him," Dean managed to find his breath long enough to rasp. It was almost a plea. He wanted to say more, wanted to let this thing know how bad he was going to hurt him, how slow he was going to kill him, but he couldn't move his lips because he couldn't fucking breathe. If Dad was dead and Sam was dead, where did that leave him?

Shapshifter John sighed in impatience, stretching to full height, unfazed by Dean's breathtaking glare. "But it would be such a load off," he frowned. "It's all right here, you know," and he pointed to his head. "Quite the complainer, isn't he? Nowhere near as loyal as you. All he does is slow us down. Especially you, kiddo. When it comes to Sammy you're as blind as a bat. The kid's not cut out for this, not like you and me."

"Shut up," Dean growled, fighting the ropes to no avail.

"He just gets in the way, doesn't he?" he scowled, ignoring Dean's outburst. "Never listens to a thing I say, just gets in the way. He's always in the way." He took a final look at Dean and flashed him a smile. "Was in the way," he muttered and turned to leave.

"NO!" Dean screamed, cursed, threatened his life, begged him to listen, but could do nothing but struggle as he disappeared behind his back and left the basement with a thud of the door. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even lift his head. Sam was thirteen. Almost fourteen, he corrected himself, wanting to laugh and cry all at once. He choked back a sob. Sammy didn't deserve to die. He was only thirteen. He blinked desperately at the tears that formed in his eyes. He had to focus, even if he didn't know why. What point was there? He glared at the wall ahead of him as he worked at the ropes. He needed to focus. Why should he focus when there was no point to getting out in the first place? Maybe he needed a distraction. Sam's unmoving form locked itself into his mind. He needed to focus, even if he didn't know why.

Twenty minutes later and Dean toppled forward, out of breath and free of his bonds. Damned be the day he ever saw another line of rope. He rested his shaking arms on either side of his head, fighting the incessant pain in his wrists and shoulders, and heaved himself to his knees. He stared at his hands, bleeding at the knuckles, nails, and wrists. The inside of his palms were completely raw and he didn't care. Where was his gun? He stood on quaky legs, stumbled once, twice, and had a solid footing. Without realizing it, he had made his way out of the basement and into the rotted excuse for a house. It was still dark out, steely black sky making its way through cracks in the boarded up windows. A blinking streetlight illuminated the home just enough to make a sketchy impression of the interior. He felt the sole of his shoe slide a little and peered beneath his feet. Saliva was building in his mouth before he could control it as he forced a fist to his mouth to prevent the bile from rising in his throat. He was standing in skin.

A quiet moan disturbed his losing battle to control his gag reflexes. Dean's eyes shifted from the mass of skin to the boarded windows. He let them travel around the room, adjusting to the darkness. Broken chairs, a moth eaten sofa, and countless stains of he didn't want to know what filled the tiny expanse of living space, and in the corner, slumped against the wall, was his barely conscious father.

---

**last word:** chapter three is nearly done and should be up around a week from now, maybe a little after. I'm quite busy lately but will definitely make time for this story. reviews always appreciated.  
**ps:** the altercations between John and Sam cannot be labeled abuse, because it is not. Sam just knows how to hit where it HURTS. has anyone noticed that? its like hes begging to be slugged without knowing it. so no, John is not a total cow who doesnt care about his kids in this, he just gets worked up, as does Sam(who acts a little too old with his mouth for his own good sometimes), from time to time.  
**LISTEN TO ME:** thanks for doing so :)


	3. Can't Hardly Breathe

**warning:** majorly depressing. and the obvious use of colorful adjectives.  
**A/N:** I'm so sorry it took so very long to update this(as well as _Gone_), but I've been rather busy with school, some weekend work, and this and that. Trying to focus on _Gone_ was probably the main reason though. writers block has prevented me from getting very far in the now eleven chapter(recently updated!!) fic, and it has been quite hard to bounce back. I'm still a little stuck as a matter of fact. Helpful hints on defeating the horrid disease would be most appreciated.  
**sidenote:** I really love this chapter, but I do believe chapter four will take the cake. This was originally only meant to be three chapters, but sadly, yet happily, it's grown a bit too lengthy for only three chapters. Four should do it though, so be prepare for the final installment because I'm almost positive that the story will not surpass four chapters.  
**reviewers:** deserve the world. thanks so much for all of you input, you guys rock!  
**also:** I apologize for grammatical errors I'm sure are in this. my editor's internet is wonky as of late and I'm correcting on my own, God help me. I get far too excited with my own stories to check properly!

**Chapter Three:**

There was a gust of cool air as the door swung inwardly to reveal Sam's worn looking father. There was something different about the way he was moving but Sam couldn't put his finger on what. All he could focus on was that even as he shut the door, Dean wasn't there with him.

"Where's Dean?" he pried, keeping his voice soft and neutral as he steadied himself and stood. It was stupid to think something was wrong. They drove separate cars, Dad had gotten back first, and that was all. "Dad," he didn't know why his dad was sitting so quietly with his head in his hands, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to, "where's Dean?"

He didn't even look up, just shook his head.

Sam felt winded. What was that supposed to mean? It didn't mean what he thought it was meant to mean, though. Shit like that didn't happen. Sam would wait for them to get back, more worried than he'd ever admit, and then they would. They always did. So where was Dean? Dad shaking his head in the negative was not an answer he was willing to accept; was not an answer he was capable of grasping. Sam didn't remember retreating to the wall and sliding to the floor, but as he looked up to catch a glimpse of his dad, he became acutely aware of his position on the dingy carpet and frequent tremors running through his body. It had to mean something different. Dean's lifeless eyes were staring at him and he didn't think he could handle even imagining something so wrong.

"Where –" he couldn't remember thinking what he was saying. He could only see the haunting image of Dean's corpse in his mind. "Dean?"

"He's dead." His dad's voice was little more than a whisper, a hollowed rasp, but loud enough to block out all remaining sounds, thoughts, and meaning.

Sam suddenly couldn't breathe. Dean was tricking them. He would come through that stupid red door with a grin and an innocent shrug and Sam would fucking kill him. That's what would happen. Except it didn't and Sam somehow knew it wouldn't, even if he also knew it would. Everything was starting to spin and he still couldn't breathe. Dean couldn't be dead. A strange buzzing kept him from hearing the short gasps for air that were racking through his body and forcing his chin into his knees, arms clasped around his legs in a mock attempt at comfort. Then there were the tears he couldn't remember crying rolling down his cheeks and dampening his jeans.

_He's dead._

Sam pulled his legs tighter, forcing his eyes shut. It wasn't real. It was a nightmare. It was just a twisted dream.

_He's dead._

Why wouldn't his dad shut up?

_He's dead._

Didn't he know this was just a dream?

_He's dead._

Stop saying that. Sam bit his lip desperately. Stop saying that.

_He's dead. He's dead. He's dead._

Sam couldn't fight back the sob that ravaged his shaking form. Hundreds of images were racing through his mind as he fought with tightly closed eyes to ward them away. Dean was grinning lazily from a hotel bed and had thrown a bag of chips in his direction without warning before fading into a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and smaller than ever because he was only twelve years old and had somehow survived a trip to hell and back. Sam heaved through the silent sobs racking his body with a kind of pain he never knew existed. This wasn't happening. Dean's serious face glared back in defiance, clear as day as he suddenly faltered, giving in to Sam's puppy dog eyes with a hesitant smile. Dean couldn't be dead. Dean was rolling his eyes and telling him a bed time story, pretending he wasn't thinking about how they would find a way to pay for rent.

_Sam snuggled closer to his brother, eyelids heavy with sleep as he fought to stay awake long enough to see his dad return from his latest hunt. Dean didn't say no or complain about eleven year olds needing space, he just let Sam nuzzle closer to bury his face deep in the folds of his oversized t-shirt, and wrapped his arms around him tight._

"_Is he okay?" Sam finally bottled up the courage to ask._

_Dean just hugged him tighter; simultaneously tugging the covers over Sam's shivering form. "I'm sure he is, Sammy," Dean finally managed to say. His voice, always so sure and steady, rumbled inside his chest, bringing a tiny smile to Sam's face as he pressed his ear harder into his brother's front, eager for more. Dean laughed at that, making a pleasantly longer rumble come into contact with Sam's intent ears and brining him to a tiny fit of giggles._

_Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Dad's fine," he said unblinkingly with a reassuring squeeze._

"_What if they come here? What if they find us?" Sam whispered, trying to pretend the darkness of the vacant hotel room didn't bother him in the slightest._

_Dean opened his mouth, a look of confusion etched into his features._

"_The monsters," Sam whispered more urgently this time, answering Dean's question without another word. He couldn't help but dig his nose closer to Dean, breathing in the same smell his dad sometimes had when they stayed in one place for too long._

_Dean smiled a little. "They won't."_

"_How do you know?" Sam asked miserably._

_Dean had a callused hand on the underside of Sam's chin before another monster could plague his brother's mind and tilted his head back gently, allowing Sam a clear view of his unwavering, green eyes. "Because I'm here."_

Sam hiccupped through the violent sobs that had somehow remained silent. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to feel. Sam wasn't even sure he knew how to feel anything at all. It was like a hole as vast as space had swallowed his stomach and crept to his chest, settling hot like acid, cold like February, and emptier than words could possibly hope to express. He stared hard at his knees, not even trying to fight the alligator tears streaming down his face, too afraid to close his eyes and meet his brother's lopsided grin of assurance when he knew it wasn't real. Not anymore.

Another sob escape his tightly clamped lips. Dean was dead.

"Distracted."

Sam jumped a little, startled by the disturbance of his father's voice. He tilted his head back, his eyes busy traveling from the tops of his knees to the overpowering presence of his father looming over him. He tried to hold back another sob. He needed his dad more than he'd ever needed anyone in his entire existence.

"He was distracted," John repeated. His voice was wet with accusation, stained with hate.

Sam's mouth moved but fell short as silence greeted his swollen throat. He just stared. His dad wasn't blaming him for Dean, it just sounded that way. Even as he tried to reassure himself, guilt hung over him like a heavy cloud of pain and misery.

"It got him cornered."

Sam looked away, focusing on his knees for comfort. Why was he telling him this?

"It got him caught."

Sam covered his ears, crushing his skull in a sad attempt to block his father's solemn voice. He couldn't breathe. He pressed against his knees, curling into a ball of self-support. He couldn't keep himself from sobbing; couldn't keep his voice from cracking through the pain as he buried his face deeper into the folds of his legs. Dean's face invaded his vision the moment he shut his eyes, slack and void of life.

"Stop," he sobbed, face still buried in his knees, hidden from his father's accusing stare.

"It got him killed."

"Please," he begged, barely able to voice his plea through his uneven breathing and sobs.

"You got him killed."

"No," he gasped, tears stinging his eyes worse than ever. "No." Sam wanted to die. He could hear Dean screaming in protest inside his head, but it didn't matter. Dean was dead. His dad was blaming him for his brother's death and nothing else existed but that solitary accusation. Nothing was more real than the malice in his words and the sound of Sam's heart tearing to pieces beneath layers of skin in his chest. Nothing was more important than the simple fact that Dean Winchester, hunter, protector, big brother extraordinaire, was never coming back. Dean Winchester was dead, and it was all Sam could do to breathe.

Hands were on his collar, yanking him roughly to his feet and pinning him against the wall before he could make sense of the pounding in his ears or the thoughts of death swarming his mind. He winced as his head connected with the sheetrock and let his knees buckle, wishing he would be allowed to slide back to the floor. The hands tightening against his shirt assured him the pleasantry would not be allowed.

"It's your fault!" John breathed against his face, violently shaking Sam by his shoulders.

Sam whimpered, hardly sucking down air through the rough treatment of his body. He shut his eyes, choosing memories of Dean's reassuring face over his father's twisted one. He couldn't help but sob in response.

"If he hadn't been so busy worrying about you," John spat, "fucking distracted by the thought of your sorry ass getting involved, none of this would have happened!"

Sam only sobbed harder, unable to voice a protest against the unbearable charge of damning his brother. He hadn't known. How was he supposed to know that wanting to help would be a distraction? He should have known, though. He knew Dean, didn't he? Of course he would have been distracted by the idea of Sam riding shotgun to get his ass beat by a ghost. If possible, he cried even harder, eyes still shut in hopes of escaping the nightmare he had somehow found himself trapped in. It was his fault Dean was dead and his alone.

John's fists tightened against his shoulders, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the younger Winchester. "It's your fault my boy is dead!"

Sam felt himself disconnect with reality for a moment as his vision swam from the impact of a fist to his upper jaw before he hit the television stand. He moaned in pain as his right shoulder took the brunt of the collision and he slid to a heap to the floor, cradling his injured arm. He blinked in confusion, pain flaring in the left side of his face, toward the towering form of his father staring down at him, a twisted grin distorting his features. Sam swallowed the vomit threatening to escape his throat and struggled to subdue his shudders. This thing wasn't his dad. He should have known the moment he walked in the door, the second he pinned the blame on Sam, and the instant he was physically uprooted from the floor that his dad wasn't with him in the hotel room. He let his thoughts revert to hunter mode, just like he was meticulously trained to do in situations like this. Only this time he didn't have Dean. He didn't even have Dad.

"Where is he?" Sam remained on the floor, leaning against the wooden structure for support. He tried to imagine his dad somehow being alive, but the optimism wouldn't come. There was no possible way his dad would have allowed this thing to live if he was still alive. Sam bit his lip. Dad had to still be alive. He didn't have anyone else. His heart ached more than he thought it could at the idea of being completely alone and it took all of his self control to hold back another breath taking sob.

"Dead," the shapeshifter responded casually.

"No." Sam glared, all too aware of the tears drying in streaks down his face.

"They're dead, kiddo," he repeated, "Not much use denying that."

Sam clenched his left fist, realizing his right was incapable of doing much good at this point. He wondered wearily in the back of this mind whether or not it was dislocated. Every fiber of his being wanted to roll over and pretend it was all a bad dream. Logically, he knew his dad had to be dead. There was no other explanation for why the monster would still be capable of breathing. But that meant Dean was dead too.

"It's a shame," the shapeshifter spoke warily as he drew a knife from his back pocket and Sam didn't miss the crimson staining the tip. "It really was your fault. The kid was easy to sneak up on, slow to react. 'Made the old man a synch to nab. It's never really a good idea to bring your son on a hunt, you know?"

Sam shook his head, never taking his eyes off the thing. His jaw remained clenched, a fiery anger coursing through his veins.

"Kid was begging 'til the end, but the old man bled quick, died slow."

Sam launched himself at the form of his father in a rage and knew it was a mistake before he even felt the fist hammering into his gut. He gasped, winded from the blow, and lost his footing as a second jab weakened his knees. He barely had time to stumble before the sole of a shoe made contact with his chest and forced him to his back. Sam's eyes widened as he managed to focus on his surroundings in time to see the shapeshifter's hands on the towering television stand. He barely had time to raise a weak arm over his head before the wooden unit was tipped in his direction.

---

Dean's knuckles stung as he tightened his grip on the wheel and stole a glance to the passenger seat and the barely conscious form of his father. He bit his lip, pressed harder against the accelerator, and somehow managed to make a turn without flipping the vehicle. He heard John let out a grunt as gravity forced him into the window but didn't let up, couldn't slow down.

"You okay?" Dean voiced his concern. Dad's shoulder was fucked. Bad. His leg wasn't going to be much use to anyone for quite some time, but he had remained conscious long enough to make it to the Impala and had faded in and out of awareness ever since. It was another fifteen minutes to the hotel. Fifteen long minutes that Sam would alone, unprotected, with the son of a bitch who had left his dad to bleed out while he went to finish the last of the Winchesters. Sam could be dead in fifteen minutes.

John grunted, swallowed, and grunted again. "Faster."

Dean had already begun accelerating before the command was out of his father's mouth. He would make it in ten. He blinked nervously, afraid his eyes would betray his overwhelming fear. Would that be fast enough?

"How could we not know?" Dean grit his teeth. "How could we miss something this fucking big?"

"No one ... recorded it, son," his father wheezed.

"We should have known."

John did not respond, just gave an affirmative nod.

"What if –" Dean cut himself short and willed his hands to stay steady. He didn't have time to have a breakdown. Sam's life depended on them making it on time, on fixing their mistake; his mistake. He couldn't hold back the shudder that traveled down his spine as he imagined the alternative and it was almost too much to bear. He wanted... He didn't even want to think about what he wanted. Wanting something he already had implied that it was no longer there, that Sam was already gone. But, God, he wanted his annoying little brother. "What if we don't –"

"We'll make it," Dad's voice attempted to sound reassuring. If Dean had the time to spare he would have really appreciated the lie, but right now all he could do was grate his molars and vent his unease on the gas pedal, praying that they wouldn't die in a crash before reaching his brother. The thought had him easing up ever so slightly, but not enough to really slow them down. "We'll make it."

---

"Damn."

John's voice had Sam's eyes squinting open, his arm still hovering over his head to provide some form of protection from the threat that had yet to come. He swallowed a scream as he opened his eyes to see the doors of the heavy wooden stand inches from his face, bulging with the weight of the television pressing against them. The tip of the stand had hit the bed and successfully prevented its collision with the floor and pinned its door shut. The wooden structure lurched, doors groaning and wood splintering as the mattress sank and the bedspread began slinking toward the floor. Sam rolled, knowing his escape was guarded, and made a run for the bathroom door, ignoring the frightening sound of the television breaking free from the stand and shattering into the carpet.

His hands were fumbling with the lock before he remembered shutting the door, eyes stinging from the sudden darkness as his fingers searched for the switch. Light filled the small room and he was face to face with his own pale, violently shaking reflection. His eyes roamed along the walls; panic spiking as he realized the hopelessness of his situation. He was locked in fucking a bathroom, weaponless, and against someone smart enough to break a simple lock. His hands gripped at his hair feebly as his knees began to buckle.

He wanted his dad, not the thing that looked like him on the other side of the door. And God, he wanted Dean. He withdrew his hands and focused. He was a Winchester, right? He wished his pulse would let up; the sound of it pounding in his ears was too much of a distraction.

A sharp twist of the knob sent a stab of fear through him as he jumped and involuntarily yelped. The twist turned into a loud rasp of knuckles; a thump; a steady pounding. Then the pounding stopped, and that could only mean one thing. He backed up, stumbled over the rug, and let his back ease against the wall. His fingers searched blindly for something, anything, as he kept his eyes fastened to the door, but came up short.

He screamed, unable to contain his fear as a sturdy kick brought the door crashing inwards and a man slouching past. His arms instinctively blocked the first blow, his leg managed to react on its own and connect with his shin before making a swipe for the back of his legs, but he was riding on fear and his father's face was too much to handle. Sam gasped as his head was yanked forcefully back. Before he had time to attempt a struggle he was tugged from his feet, dragged by the hair, as a knee connected with his ribs.

"'Killed your whole family, twerp," John's gravely voice mumbled just before the side of Sam's face met the mirror. He whimpered, unable to suppress the pain as the glass spider webbed away from his temple, cutting into his skin as his head was pressed against the cracking mirror. "You know your mom died over your goddamn crib?"

Sam ceased his meager struggles.

"Didn't think so."

His consciousness lasted just long enough to hear the sound of his head connecting with the marble countertop before everything began to fade into a blissful world of stark nothingness; his last coherent thoughts being of complete failure and an intense loneliness his family could no longer fill.

---

**OMG CHAPTER ELEVEN OF _GONE _IS UP AND AWAITING YOUR REVIEWS!!**


	4. Now or Never

**warning:** an expected amount of sadness and the familiar use of the english language.  
**AN:** I really don't have an excuse this time because either way it should not have taken anywhere near this long to complete. All I'm going to say is I officially hate research papers with a burning passion and seem to have spiraled into an even shorter attention span. That desperately needs tuning. I'm going to work extra hard on that. But with the way things are looking, at least by December 18, there will be smooth sailing with next to no distractions(expressive words just don't seem to properly illustrate how happy I am about that finer detail). But yeah. I pretty much suck out loud. And have introduced my head to the desk. I'm sorry I'm such a jerk and take so long to update more often than not. Really, I am. :headdesk:  
**reviewers:** I got some PMs and dA comments to urge me into getting around to finishing this. So, thanks for those if you're one of those people, or just someone who left a review to snap me into focus. And once more, I'm so very sorry I waited this long to get around to updating. I love every single review I've read and appreciate each one. Thank you all so much for taking the time to let me know how you feel about my story!  
**unfortunate:** This is not the end as expected; the chapter got to be a little too long for my liking and if it had been wrapped up the way I intend to finish it, this would not have been updated for another two weeks and been about 5000 words longer. The weight of this hefty, yet quickly paced chapter was just too much. I see chapter five as being the best though(which is what I said about four, but this was supposed to be what chapter five is going to be, it just got too long), so maybe you have the heart to stick around and finish it up. Enjoy the read!

**Chapter Four:**

Dean abruptly stopped the car, jolting his father out of his semi-conscious state. He could see the hotel, even distinguish the third from the right red door that belonged to them, but made no attempt to ease the car into the easy parking just outside of the room. His fingers twitched with an odd mixture of anticipation and anxiousness as he killed the engine, sharing a knowing look with his now coherent father. Engines were loud. Engines were loud enough to let those occupying the room know that they had arrived; loud enough to give a heads up. It was a risk neither Winchester was willing to take. And so they came to a stop on the far side of the nearly vacant lot where anxiety and stone cold dread hung low and heavy.

Dean fisted the ends of his sleeve before unfurling his fingers to reach below his seat. His heart was thudding almost painfully at this point, and the gun weighing down on his hand wasn't helping matters. He didn't have time for this. He wrenched the door open, surprised by the fierceness of the chilling wind he had fully expected a moment before. A hand on his wrist held him in place and he thought he might break it if he waited a minute longer.

"Dean..."

"What?" He snapped a bit harsher than he intended. In reality he didn't even care. This was a waste of precious time Sam just didn't have.

"You don't need to do this alone, he could –" He swallowed a little too obviously, "Sam could, he might –"

"What?" Dean whirled to face his father but failed to pull his wrist free from the vise-like grip. "Already be dead?" The word left an unsettling after taste in his mouth.

His father blanched before taking on a mask of anger. His hand noticeably tightened. "It's too dangerous!"

"We don't have time for this. Sam doesn't have time for this. And seeing as you have virtually no mobility at this point," he nearly growled, "you need to let me go."

"Dean." Dad had that tone. The kind that told him he was crossing a line and somehow falling a little too far behind.

"Let. Me. Go." Dean was actually baring his teeth, but his eyes were over his father's and through the window, completely focused on the ominous red door. He could see the false gold number glinting in the light from the streetlamp if he looked just right.

"Just hand me my gun and –"

"Why don't you try," He snapped, yanking his hand from John's grasp.

John was twisting in his seat, reaching for something, anything, Dean suspected. Sweat covered his brow as he fumbled with his shaking hand, avoiding Dean's eyes and failing to hide back a wince of pain. "I am not losing two sons tonight!"

Dean backed up a step, his mouth slightly agape. He needed to throw up. He clamped his hands over his temples, gun loose in his right and cool against his skin. Two sons? Sam wasn't dead. "We don't have time for this," he repeated more firmly than he should ever have been able to manage, and slammed the door.

He turned, knowing his father wouldn't be able to follow, wouldn't risk drawing the attention. He rolled his shoulders, suddenly stiff and unresponsive. His head was swimming and it was getting harder and harder to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He could hear his breaths coming out in shallow rasps and he couldn't bring himself to care. What did it matter? There was no way in hell he was stopping to gain his ground. It was now or never.

He wanted to scream. Now or never? He nearly choked on the lump in his throat before he even knew it was there. Never. He tightened his grip on the gun and removed the safety. Sam was fine. He wondered vaguely how his knees could hold his weight when they were shaking so badly. He wanted to thank God for keeping his body on autopilot but couldn't bring himself to thank something that had remained so blatantly absent throughout the night's events. Hell, the deity had been absent Dean's entire life. He was only a couple yards away now. But it wasn't really Dean's life God had been absent for, it was Sam's. He passed his father's truck with a trained eye, scowling at the thought of something that looked like his dad having driven it there. Dean had four blissful years of happy ignorance. Sam had no such history. All he knew was pain and hate, lies, war, and more death than anyone should have to deal with, and Dean was afraid it was all he'd ever get to know. How could he know anything else? One fateful night had viciously snatched away the opportunity of experiencing anything he really deserved.

Dean eased against the wall, gun down, hands suddenly steady as if they had finally grasped the importance of the situation. He stared out into the darkness and managed to make out the bleak outline of the Impala and resisted the urge to shout the first profane thought that came to mind. Nothing could stop him from what he was about to do, not even some stupid, ominous, too logical point of his father's; no matter how much it scared him. But it didn't matter how scared he was because the reason for that fear was not for himself but for his brother. Sam's face was crystal clear in Dean's mind as it spread into the tiny grin of victory he tended to grow just after duping his brother into something with his patented puppy dog eyes. Dean blinked the image away and sent up a silent prayer, despite himself and his unabated hatred of God, for a chance to see the smile again.

He rolled his neck, let the hatred wash over him, fuel him, and stepped in front of the door. He didn't hesitate to fiddle with a handle he knew to be locked, and landed a sturdy kick just below the knob. The frame splintered as the door swung inwards and Dean eased with it, gun at the ready. He somehow managed to stay steady despite the utter chaos that assaulted his vision the moment he passed through the door. His eyes quickly scanned the upturned room, resting on the overturned stand in the center, scattered glass and plastic strewn beneath and around it. He swallowed and swiveled his gun in the direction of the sliver of light shining through the crack in bathroom door and stepped quietly toward it. He pushed in with his foot, squinting in preparation, completely unprepared for the shattered mirror splintered with tiny rivulets of blood.

"Sammy," he breathed, losing his last ounce of oxygen in the process.

Sam lay motionless, sprawled awkwardly on the tiled floor, long dark locks drifting lazily over his eyes, failing to obscure the amount of blood leaking from his temple. His lower lip was split wide, staining his bottom teeth crimson, and his face was covered in a combination of bruises, abrasions, and gashes that had Dean's gut twisting in concern.

"Sam?" He dropped to his knees at his brother's side, discarding his gun without a second thought. He slipped his hand beneath his sibling's neck and lifted slowly, supporting Sam's lifeless head by the back of the skull, and eased him onto his knees. Cuts spider webbed from his ear and splintered to the height of his right cheek, caking the side of his face in a mixture of fresh and near-dry blood. Dean cupped the side of Sam's jaw, running his thumb across the skin, and managed to pull him farther into his lap until his back rested against Dean's knees and chest. "Come on, Sammy, wake up."

Sam's head rolled listlessly to the left and against Dean in response.

"Sam." Dean swallowed the bile slowly rising in his throat. He could feel Sam's heart beating beneath the palm he had against his chest, so why wasn't he moving? "Sam." He was so much smaller than Dean last remembered. "Come on, little brother." Dean could hear blood thumping loudly in his ears, drowning out too many things he desperately needed to hear. Shouldn't he be awake? He put a trembling hand to Sam's arm and shook him slightly. He wanted to hear Sam's annoying teenage psycho babble, an insult, anything but the ear splitting silence ripping apart his mind and tearing deep into his heart. He pulled Sam a little closer and lowered his chin to his brother's head; no chick flick moments be damned. "Wake up, Sammy," he whispered, "please, wake up."

Sam responded by rolling toward Dean's voice, burying his face into his brother's chest and voicing the most beautiful whimper Dean had ever heard. He shifted enough to see Sam's face and cradled his jaw toward his direction. "Let's see those eyes, little brother," he tried to keep his voice from cracking with relief.

Sam grimaced at the light assaulting his eyes, but managed to blink in Dean's general direction. He stared questionably into Dean's doubling eyes and allowed himself to relax in the arms surrounding him. "Dean."

Dean nodded, letting himself rake a hand through Sam's unruly hair. "Yeah, Sammy, it's me."

Sam's eyes suddenly widened as a look of panic tore into his gaze. An unchecked fear Dean never thought possible of his little brother had settled in his eyes; the same eyes that remained locked on Dean's.

And all at once he began to struggle, desperate to free himself from Dean.

"Sam, what the hell? It's me, calm down!" Dean fought to keep his voice steady but refused to release his hold, terrified of the consequences of letting go.

"No!" Sam screamed with his eyes clenched shut, arms flailing in a helpless attempt to escape the pair surrounding him. He wasn't even attempting to fight, just writhing with all he had. A sense of hopeless terror seemed to have assumed control and overrode his system. "NO!"

"Sam!" Dean loosened his hold but would not let go; couldn't if he tried. "Shh. Sam, you're okay, little brother, you're okay now," he forced himself to whisper, keeping his lips close to Sam's ear in a futile attempt to calm his thrashing sibling.

"No..." Sam's struggles weakened but continued, all at once accompanied by tears and shuddering sobs. "No."

Dean's heart pounded mercilessly against his chest as a painful reminder of just how badly things had fucked up, how much Sam had to pay. He felt his brother breaking and couldn't seem to catch the pieces. "It's okay, I'm here now," he shushed, running his hand in circles on his back, hoping the touch would somehow soothe away his fears, "nothing's gonna to happen. I'm right here, Sammy, it's okay now."

"Plea-please..." Sam's weary plea tore deep into Dean as he watched him lean as far away as his constricted movement allowed him and fought to breathe through his sobs. "D-don't. Any –anyone else. Please..."

And Dean did something he never thought he'd be capable of doing. He eased his arms away and let go.

"Okay, Sammy. It's okay." His mind screamed in rage and self hatred. His brother was terrified and there seemed to be nothing he could do to protect him from that awful fear, not when he was the apparent cause. He watched dejectedly as Sam bolted from his lap, connecting hard with the tile and scrambling to the far end of the bathroom, as far from Dean as possible. He collapsed in a heap, tightly pressed to the corner near the bulb of the toilet, and drew his knees to protect himself from the threat of imminent doom that only he could see.

"Sammy?" Dean reached cautiously for Sam's arm when something beyond the room snapped just loud enough to reach his ears. He whirled, heartbeat racing, and raised his arms in an attempt to shield Sam from the presence he could feel lingering in the living space before his eyes even attempted to connect with its form.

"What the hell did you do to my room?" A burly man of stoic stature stood in the carnage of the ransacked hotel room, peering angrily at the splintered wood beneath his feet. Dean felt his pulse slow a fraction but searched hungrily for his fallen weapon before detecting the barrel, clearly visible, peeking beneath the raised legs of the tub. "What the fuck did you do?" the man repeated, still staring in shock about the vicinity. Dean recognized the face as the hotel manager's and watched wearily as he finally brought his furious gaze upon Dean, still crouched in his protective stance. Something was off.

"Listen, you little shit," he spat, taking deliberate strides in the direction of Dean, "you're paying for every splint of –" he trailed off as his eyes shifted from Dean's warning glare over his shoulder and to the huddle of a human being crouched and cowering behind him. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, all rage leaving his features and being quickly replaced with sickening concern. "He okay?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond but found his mouth too dry to speak the retort screaming inside his mind. He only grimaced lightly and shifted slowly to hide Sam from his eyes. "Call an ambulance."

"Hey kid," he huffed, craning his neck for a better look at Sam, almost as if he were an interesting exhibit in a zoo. Dean's jaw twitched in rage as he found himself incapable of explaining why he couldn't just deck the man where he stood. "You okay?"

"Does he look okay to you?" Dean shot back with a daring stare. He tried to ignore the way Sam had taken to holding his breath. "Call a goddamn ambulance!"

The man scowled before redirecting his attention to Sam and further softening his tone. "Kid, did this guy do this to you?" Dean felt his insides freeze in a sensation of pain and rage. His fingers twitched in anticipation but remained raised for good measure as his eyes went back to the gleam of the gun. He didn't miss the way the older man's eyes darted nervously in the weapon's direction.

Sam let out a single, muffled sob he had been holding for quite some time.

"I'm his brother," he found himself defending, palms exposed to the quickly darkening features of the man before him, "You saw us together yesterday, remember?" It was painstakingly obvious that the hotel manager remembered no such thing. His beady eyes darted from Dean to the far edges of the room as if a magical solution would somehow appear at any given moment in time. "Please," Dean repeated, pleaded, "he's my little brother and I –"

"My brother's dead," Sam whispered softly from behind.

Dean felt his heart stop, and in a moment of desperation, of complete and unrelenting need, he spun to face his brother, thoughts of the burly manager forgotten as he met Sam's watery, determined gaze. Dean's knees would have buckled at the sight of abandonment he saw reflected in Sam's bloodshot eyes had he not already been on them, and he found himself incapable of doing more than stare pleadingly into his brother eyes for a long moment. He reached tentatively for Sam's face and managed to ignore the way he flinched away from his touch.

"I'm right here, Sam," Dean whispered, gently directing Sam's jaw, "I'm right here."

Sam leaned away from the touch, shutting his eyes in an attempt to block the sight, only to have Dean raise his other hand to guide Sam's face back toward his. He ran his thumbs beneath Sam's eyes, tracing away the trails of tears and enticing his them to open. Sam squinted in his direction and pressed against the wall as if caught in a cage, too accustomed to freedom to know exactly how to react.

"I'm not him, Sammy," Dean whispered, keeping his green eyes connected firmly with Sam's, "You know I'm not him. You know it." At that Sam's eyes began to fill and Dean spread his fingers through the tangled locks of brown hair, careful of his right side, to ease his hand across Sam's left temple and through his hair in a way he'd done countless time before. "You can't fake everything Sammy," he said through the lump in his throat.

Sam's lips curved into a small, sad smile as he fought the desire to lean into the familiar touch and held his ground. And Dean nearly lost his resolve when he realized how much damage he was causing, how close he was to breaking his little brother.

"He can't fake this. You know that, Sam, you know it," Dean said sternly, placing his palm against his brother's cheek. "No one can fake our lives." He traced a circle against Sam's temple with his thumb the way he did when a much younger Sam was too stubborn to fall asleep on his own, fully aware that teenage Sam would ordinarily have swatted him away with a half-serious scowl if he even attempted it. "Not even a shapeshifter." Dean kept his eyes clear and unwavering as Sam searched desperately for any trace of deception, visibly torn apart, lost, and so very alone. "I'm right here, Sammy," he reassured as Sam let out a small rasp of a sob and leaned hesitantly into his hands. "I'm not going anywhere." Sam just nodded and pressed harder into his callused hands. He rested his own trembling fingers around his brother's wrists and clung for all he was worth with a small smile and trusting eyes.

Then his eyes drifted to the left of Dean's shoulder and his fear was suddenly stronger than before. He was tugging on Dean's arms, forcing him to the right, but it was too late. And he knew it. "NO!"

Dean spun in time to feel a sudden, searing pain erupt in his left side above the hip, just as the hilt of a knife came to rest against the material of his shirt and snagged its current trajectory. He inhaled, aware of only a fraction of the pain he should be feeling as it flared through his shock protected nerves, and nearly stumbled in surprise. He managed to look down, study the familiar hilt he'd seen as it traced the lines of his jaw hours beforehand, and distinguish the sound of his brother screaming his name before his legs were swept from beneath him and the knife was abruptly pulled away. He fell hard, blissfully to the right, and landed with a thud that jolted the offending wound and forced a sharp cry of pain to pass from his lips before his mind had even registered the fact that he had hit the floor. Dean blinked back spots of black and struggled to regain his focus as his eyes shifted to the blossoming spread of crimson across his shirt and watched as it rose and fell in sync with his uneven gasps for air, clinging to his skin through the thin material. So much for focusing.

"Now, why'd you half'ta come and spoil all the fun?" The hotel manager's face loomed overhead with a grim frown of true disappointment.

A groan was pretty much all Dean could manage at this point and he was quite suddenly aware of the fact that his recent tumble had expelled nearly all oxygen from his lungs. He blinked blearily at the towering man before him and tried to scowl but lost focus somewhere along the way and found himself glaring pointedly at the hilt of the knife grasped between the man's pudgy fingers instead.

"I'm talking to you, kid," the shapeshifter growled, ramming his foot into Dean's side. He attempted to roll away, reflexively longing to protect his throbbing wound, but only managed to aggravate the opening further. He gasped at the pain and blinked through tears. He managed to catch sight of Sam rushing the man from his point of view before he landed a solid foot to his brother's chest and sent him sprawling back against the wall.

"Son of a –" He found himself pinned to the floor by a boot to the jugular before he could attempt an attack. The man lifted the knife in Sam's general direction and leaned down to grab the gun, opting for the firearm. "Move and he dies," he spat in Dean's direction.

Dean seethed silently, half listening for Sam's steady rasps to catch his breath, and eyed the gun currently trained on his little brother. "You're a strange one, Winchester," the man said thoughtfully, digging his heel a little harder into Dean's throat before bending to place the tip of his too-familiar knife against his right shoulder just below the collarbone. "Real strange," he muttered over Dean's yelp of pain. He pressured the blade just enough to view it sinking into the folds of clothing and produce a moderate flow of dark, red blood. And Dean couldn't hold back the grunt of pain as the blade was promptly yanked out with an audibly sickening squelch.

Then Dean was being tugged by the arm while the soles of his shoes skidded against the tile and a hand slid lightly over his leg. Sam came into view, wide eyed and alert, but before Dean could locate his voice, the tip of his shoulder slammed into the doorframe and his world swam black right along with the howl of agony that tore from his throat. The man dragging him let out a soft chuckle. "Whoops."

Dean grimaced as he was deposited on the floor of the hotel, but managed to scramble back and away from the man before he could make another attack. He hauled himself to his feet and tried to ignore the way his knees wobbled beneath him. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," he growled, seeing only red.

The man laughed at that. "And how exactly do you plan to go about doin' that, kiddo?" He grinned, sparing a glance in Sam's direction and leveling the gun with his head. "Didn't work out so well last time for dear Sammy, now, did it? You ready to risk that again?" He asked, cocking the gun to emphasize his point.

Dean glared, keeping the intense gaze on the beefy man before him, but took a small step back, palms up in defense. "He didn't do anything to you." Dean's eyes darted nervously to Sam's who had frozen mid step in the doorway of the small bathroom, focus trained on barrel pointed at him with a mixture of fear and grim determination.

The man flicked his eyes in Dean's direction and grinned. "No?" He barked out a laugh. "Kid nearly busted my lip." Dean grinned proudly before the double of the manager returned his smile to Sam. "I'm thinking your whole family's done something to me, Deano. I'm thinking every goddamn hunter's done quite a lot, that's what I think." He lowered the gun a little, moving to face Dean, "I'm thinking Sammy here's gonna be first."

But Dean saw the break in his stature and made a lunge, effectively startling the shapeshifter into refocusing his attention toward him. Dean shifted to avoid the barrel of the gun and made a grab for the wrist holding the offending weapon, used momentum to drag the man around, but lost his grip on the pistol, barely aware that it had fallen to the floor with a soft thud. Unfortunately his father's fighting skills seemed to have rubbed off and the man easily twisted out of his grip and dodged a well placed blow. Then Dean was seeing black specks as a fist connected forcefully with the side of his skull and sent him stumbling backward. Another fist whizzed past his ear, accompanied by the glint of a blade, just as he half-ducked, half-fell away from the attack and rolled to regain his footing.

"Stupid, fuck," the shapeshifter muttered, grinning bigger than ever.

Dean ran the back of his hand across his mouth to rid himself of the taste of blood and eyed the large man with a seasoned sense of adjusted fear, briefly letting his eyes slide to Sam and locate the gun that rested an equal distance away from them all. His shoulder ached with an intensity he had felt a handful of occasions before, but the steady flow of slick blood from his almost numbed side was quickly testing his attention.

The shapeshifter's grin was back, coal eyes on Dean. "Too slow," he muttered as he shifted to rush the youngest Winchester.

Dean couldn't hear himself scream for Sam to move or remember making a conscious decision to lunge; he only saw the glint of the blade and the look of shock that spread across his brother's face before the sound of his own heart beat flooded his ears and the top of his shoulder connected with the towering man's side, sending them both to the floor. His elbow rammed into the man's nose just before a pressure against his side left him motionless, gasping for air. He twisted in time to avoid the swipe of a blade, managed to kick the knife from the man's grasp, and struggled to regain his footing, only to be dragged back down again, chin meeting the thin carpet with a jarring intensity. He blinked back tears and dizziness, resisting the urge to gag on the amount of blood currently flooding his mouth, and rolled to his back, momentarily dazed. His eyes darted to the gleam of the blade's reflection as his fingers groped for the hilt just as a heavy knee bore down on his chest, freezing his search and restricting his air. He twisted against the hold to find himself staring into the barrel of his own gun. He blinked again, unable to pull in more than a thin gasp of air, and the tip of the gun was suddenly against his temple, cool and oddly familiar as his hands were all at once pinned beneath the same knee planted firmly against his chest. Sam was frozen again, arms held out in submissive fashion and knees trembling from their halted offense. He blinked wide, frightened, somehow furious eyes in Dean's direction, silently asking what to do and desperately avoiding the plausible outcome. Then a hand was digging into Dean's hair and yanking his head back, straining his neck to face the beady, little eyes of the manager and the toothy grin of the shapeshifter.

"You," he rasped, licking away the blood collecting at the corner of his lips, "are way more trouble than you're worth."

Dean only winced in response as the barrel against his temple was driven painfully closer and his head was jerked to the left, facing Sam. A thousand and one things to say came spilling into his mind but a rough shake to his scalp and the tilt of his world bluntly stated that there was less than no time for even one. He met Sam's quickly filling eyes with stirring dread, and, to Dean's horror, Sam's shaky gaze was unquestionably reflecting the debate of an assault. This was it. The fucking end and Dean couldn't even take a last breath for the weight against his ribs. But in the millisecond it took to process the familiar glint of determination in his little brother's eyes, he attempted to convey at least one of the racing thoughts with what must have been a pitiful glare in time with the click of the gun.

_Don't._

Then Sam's knees buckled and Dean was forced to squeeze his eyes shut at the tightening of the hand against his hair and unwillingness to have the image of Sam crumpled in defeat branded into his mind for good. "Say Goodbye to Dean, kiddo," the hoarse voice whispered almost greedily over his head.

The sound of the shot echoed through the walls and seemed to reverberate through the very core of Dean's being, from the hand against his head, to his seemingly hollowed chest, and into the tingly, tiny nerves of the tips of his fingers with rather vengeful intensity as all remaining sights and sounds faded into an insignificant shade of gray. A muffled voice, whether it was a laugh or a sob, broke the escalating silence as the weight pressuring against Dean was suddenly shifted and began tilting to land heavily against the splintered pieces of wood, dragging Dean along with it. He rolled, halting in a painful impact that left him more nauseated than ever but couldn't possibly strike him as all bad because it was quite apparent that he was still alive, and that had to mean something. He dragged himself away from the lump of rotund man, managing to sit up in the process, and located the mattress of the nearest bed to lean against. He cracked open his eyes just in time to catch an armful of Sam who promptly dug his nose into Dean's uninjured shoulder more forcefully than originally intended.

Dean barely bit back the howl of pain that came with Sam's unceremonious embrace but managed to wrap his own arms around his sibling's trembling frame before snapping to attention and scouring the still spinning room. His eyes roamed from the lifeless form of the shapeshifter, facedown in a puddle of pooling crimson from the rather gruesome hole in the back of his skull, to the cause of the gore. He couldn't help but let the heaviness in his eyelids direct themselves and dig his own face into the crook of Sam's neck at the sight of his father, breathing raggedly, propped against the doorway, gun loose in his grasp.

"Fuck," he slurred before he could really stop himself, "that was a little too close, huh?"

Sam only pulled himself a little closer and nodded slowly against Dean's shirt.

Dean successfully ran a quaking hand through his brother's hair, all at once too tired to decipher the subtle differences between up and down as an all too-familiar vertigo settled in his head and off-centered his balance. He found himself leaning into Sam just before everything tilted a little too far to the right and faded into a comforting blanket of black that swept all thoughts of aches and pains far away form the tiniest crevices of his conscious mind and into a void of blissful nothingness.


	5. Promises

**warning:** colorful vocabulary and brotherly love.  
**A/N:** so, I don't really have anything to say in my defense other than, I got a life. I'm still quite obsessive over Supernatural and still writing - if you believe it or not, I have at least 5 stories in the works - regularly, but never with enough time to completely finish a train of thought. unfortunately, my one track mind didn't seem to respond too well to that, and everytime I sat down a second time, I would have to erase half of what I wrote before hand to keep up with where I was going. I have a class that requires a minimum of two hours a night, translations every week, and essays out the wazoo, a new relationship, and a growing streak of slacking off. the odds were and are against me, but I shall prevail - eventually.  
**recap:** the only possible way to remember what has recently happened in this story, or be in the proper mood for this chapter's tone, is to reread at least chapter four.  
**reviewers:** you are all so amazing and steadfast despite my crazy absence that I can't really begin to say thanks. but I'll try. thanks for sticking through this story and riding out all the bumps and.. craters that signify months, for the compliments, critiques, and opinions, and especially for the motivation and warm felt comments I never knew I'd need quite so much  
**heather03nmg:** thank you particularly. I would still be flip-flopping around if it weren't for your consitent pushing and motivation. thanks so much!  
**also:** keep an eye out for new stories - new stories that will be complete before being uploaded and therefore on time. I hope you enjoy the final installment, and are prepared for a slight follow up story to incoorporate this one's loose ends. thanks again for reading!

**Chapter Five:**

Sam sagged under the dead weight of his now unconscious brother, nearly toppled back in surprise, but managed to grip him enough to position Dean's back to his front. Sam's hands fumbled for a pulse he was certain he'd find but suddenly too uncertain not to check and shook Dean's arms in hopes of waking him. He was vaguely aware of the sound of voices, of his father communicating roughly in return, and managed to comprehend the word 'ambulance' before the voices started to fade. His eyes traveled reluctantly to the form of his father leaning heavily against the doorframe and locked on his heavy gaze. Sam's mind unconsciously replaced John's frown of concern with the wry smile of the shapeshifter, wide and toothy and too demanding to ignore, and he had to look away to catch his breath and steel his nerves. He hoisted Dean a little higher in order to dig his nose in his brother's short hair and just maybe slow down his racing heart.

"Sammy?" Dad's husky voice rumbled through the silence of the room and startled Sam into jumping, scared of the ramifications of his father's too-soft tone, and scooting several inches farther away. But it was just his father, not the shapeshifter.

"It's gonna be okay." His voice was too calm, too placating, too understanding to be Dad's. Sam blinked furiously to keep the burning sensation he could feel in his eyes at bay but couldn't will his head to face his father. He knew the man standing in the doorway was John Winchester and not the motionless form of the shapeshifter lying dead a few feet away, but a part of him must have been in disagreement because his head simply would not obey his conscious demand. Dean had yet to move and that was only making things worse. Sam's fingers intertwined with Dean's limp ones as he pulled his brother's right hand across his evenly breathing chest in some form of a one-sided embrace. And goddamn his head, it still wouldn't turn to face his quite obviously distressed father. His own body refused to comply with the desperate pleas of his mind, and that was probably enough to scare anyone shitless, let alone someone who'd just watched his brother almost have his brains blown out by a guy who'd stolen his dad's face. He barked out a short, panicked laugh that nearly turned to a sob.

"Sam, I –" John's voice came up short when Sam shuddered unsubtly and hugged himself closer to Dean.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, sensing his father's hesitation and concern. "I can't, I can't," Sam searched for the words to describe the feeling of losing all control and sense of reality but failed to grasp the vocabulary. "I'm sorry," he repeated, turning his head a fraction of an inch in his father's direction, no where near facing him.

"It's okay, Sam," But Dad's voice was still too accepting and way too passionate, so all he could do was nod and not believe a word he said. He could believe Dean though because Dean was real and Dean was there; he could feel him, could smell the combination of leather and ammo and meticulously cleaned car upholstery. He couldn't hear what his dad was saying, barely picked up the sound of a siren over the ringing in his ears and the dread in his stomach. But Dean was there and Dean wasn't dead and Dad wasn't either, even if it felt like it. He knew for a fact that his dad was right there, he just needed to find a way to let the rest of him know that too.

He originally fought off the hands reaching for Dean, threatening to pry away the only proof he had left of a family, still slumped awkwardly in his lap and sprawled across debris and cheap carpet in his deep slumber of unconsciousness. But exhaustion was swift and all consuming as it carried him further away. His hands were detached, finger by finger, from the familiar material of his brother's jacket, and the scene around him muddled into an unfocused fog of irrelevance. He struggled against the sudden bought of grogginess he knew to be fainting, terrified of the growing number of possible things that could happen in the midst of his weakness, but lost track of his mission to stay alert somewhere between swaying uncertainly on his knees and connection with the floor. He saw the spotless, white tennis shoe of an unknown woman, and reality was lost to him in a sudden swarm of black.

---

Sam's stomach lurched as his center was abruptly thrown off balance from the force of a bump that sent the whole vehicle lurching almost as much as his now nauseated gut. He dug his nails into the cracked, leathery surface of what clanked like a rollaway bed and blinked furiously into the bright overhead light that couldn't have been more than three feet from his head as the outlines of two very strange men came drifting into view. He was moving but he wasn't walking and he wasn't standing, so the ceiling being that low made about as much sense as the idea of him somehow floating in place somewhere between up and down. Another bump, significantly smaller than the one to blame for his bitter wakening, forced a quiet yelp of surprise he hadn't been aware of to spill from his lips and proceeded to turn the remaining calmness in his stomach to a churning mass of sick. He blanched, a slight burn tingling into his cheeks, as the strangers turned to look down upon him, one curious, the other indifferently bland, both wearing hospital uniform. Another nearly unnoticeable bump barely touched the moving structure Sam sure as hell hoped was an ambulance and his stomach was done fooling around. He jackknifed into a seated position and doubled over, hand flying to his mouth in a desperate attempt to withhold his insides, and was rewarded with a plastic waste basket hastily forced into his hands. Weakly, he emptied the contents of his stomach with stinging tears on his face while a hard hand painfully squeezed his shoulder in what must have been an attempt at comfort, and struggled through the small bought of dry heaves that left him breathless and weary. Nothing made more sense than the soft pillow under his head, and before he could fully comprehend exactly what had happened, the lights had dimmed and he obligingly dimmed along with them.

---

"I think he's waking up," a soft, feminine voice found its way into Sam's blissfully empty head and tugged against his comprehension of the English language. His brow furrowed in confusion as the fact that he could hear a voice but failed to see anyone there to speak it entered his mind. "Sir, can you hear me?" He nodded uncertainly, wondering if hearing was somehow synonymous with seeing. "Can you open your eyes for me?" the voice responded and Sam felt himself relax a little more knowing that he simply had his eyes closed. At least he wasn't blind.

He blinked into the shocking light and quickly squeezed his eyes shut in response, shaking his head slowly to answer the question. A hand snaked its way to the crook of his left elbow and applied a fair amount of pressure while something shuffled to the right of his head and the smell of disinfectant reached his senses. He groaned, scrunching his nose in disgust. He was in a hospital.

Squinting into the too bright lighting, he attempted to focus on the white-clad nurse fumbling with something he couldn't quite see. Sam batted her hands away, too confused to understand why. "M'fine," he muttered, blinking clarity into the ocean-blue room and trying to sit up.

A rough hand applied pressure to his chest before he could make the attempt. Sam's eyes darted nervously to a twenty-something muscle guy standing close to his right. He grinned a little, keeping his hand against Sam's chest. "Hold up there, kid."

Sam swallowed in response before half-heartedly testing the weight that Muscle Guy held consistently before resigning himself to the stiff sheets of his bed. His eyes fluttered to the door several yards from where he lay to the bright, blue curtain separating his side of the room from the other and back to the soft, hazel eyes of the nurse. His heart beat brutally against his chest and his lips went dry as a sudden sense of irrational fear wriggled itself deep into his gut. "Where's Dean?" he asked a little less demandingly than he meant it to sound in his head.

"Dean?" The woman quirked her head briefly and began reaching deliberately for his face. "Who's Dean, Honey?"

Her finger grazed his skin, just below the beginning of cuts against his temple and Sam immediately flinched away. "My big brother," he supplied, warily watching her now withdrawn hand. "Where is he?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know about a brother. I could send someone to check in just a minute," she negotiated with a serene smile of assurance plastered to her face, "but first I need to help get you cleaned up, huh?"

"But I –"

"Uh," she cut him off, still smiling her big, white smile. "Can you tell me your name, Hon?" She cut him off a second time as he opened his mouth to respond, "Do you know where you are? What day it is?"

"Sam Winchester," he breathed, still looking around the room, keeping an eye on the curtain, "I think it's Tuesday." He blinked uncertainly in the nurse's direction. "Am I still in Monroe? Washington?"

Her smiled widened as she glanced to a chart resting a few inches from his knee. "Valley General Hospital," she supplied with a nod. "I don't think you have too much of a concussion, at least not too severe, but we'll have to keep an eye on it." Her eyes traveled to his left arm and snatched a cool hand under his wrist before he could pull it away. He winced at the slight touch and tried in vain to tug it gently from her grasp, unsure as to why his wrist would hurt in the first place. "Looks like a slight sprain," she said, dropping his hand. "We can get that taken care of in a jiffy," she added brightly, "but I'd like to take a look at your stomach if that's okay with you, Sam." She was tugging at the material of his t-shirt before he could object and a stabbing pain erupted in his abdomen before the shirt was even halfway up. He failed to bite back the cry and shoved frantically at her hands, desperate to rid himself of the sudden pain, but Muscle Guy's hands made quick work of grabbing his.

"Easy," he warned, keeping a steady grip on Sam's hands.

"Please," he mumbled, squirming away from her hands as best he could, "it hurts."

"I know, Sam," she agreed solemnly but kept her eyes on his stomach as she pulled his shirt a little higher, "but I have to check." She lightly touched his lower ribs before pressing slowly down.

Sam howled in response, ripping his hands from Muscle Guy's grip, and shoved her arms forcefully away. "Where's Dean?" he asked again, letting his eyes dart between the door and the curtain before wrapping an arm protectively around his middle and glaring with little intensity at the woman. Her smile faded a fraction. "I need to find Dean." He sat a little too quickly but managed to stay seated and tried to swing his legs off the side of the bed just as Muscle Guy's hands maneuvered him onto his back once more.

"Please –" The woman began coaching, hands reaching for his sides all over again.

Muscle Guy's grip tightened and Sam's nerves fluttered with adrenaline. He bucked against the hold, effectively throwing off the hands of the shocked male, and levered himself by an elbow. Dean wasn't there. His father's face loomed in his mind, two incomprehensible words ringing in his ears; _He's dead._ Sam felt himself losing his ability to breathe as the masculine guy reached hesitantly for his shoulders once more.

"You need to take a breath and –" Sam cut off his false tone of security with a foot to his chest, wincing apologetically at the soft 'oof' the guy exclaimed when he staggered to the edge of the curtain. He blinked furiously at the way the room spun and struggled to remain calm despite the unrelenting pounding of his heart.

"Please, calm down," the woman's arm was on his elbow again and his eyes barely connected with her hazel orbs before he wrenched his arm away. She stared hard, smile slipping further away as the other man scowled from his right and advanced once again. "We're only trying to help you."

"I don't need help!" he yelled back, barely aware of his voice rising in volume. "I want to see my brother!"

"We don't know about a brother!" the woman replied, throwing her hands out in distress. "But we'll find out right away if you'll just –"

He made another attempt to drag himself from the bed but was thrown back by a hard grip to his left shoulder and hand to his sternum that left him slightly winded and crashed the bed against the wall with the added weight.

"Please calm down!" she implored a second time.

"But –" He bucked against the weight, barely gaining movement, and kicked frantically at the man's knees, "I just want –" Sam fought against the readjusted grip on his shoulders to no avail as Muscle Guy suddenly shifted his weight and pulled himself onto the bed, slamming its rails into the wall a second time as he leaned over Sam's resistant form and rested a forearm across his shoulders to hold him down. "What are you doing?" He almost whimpered as his arms were pinned securely to his side. "Let go of me!" Sam arched against the weight, gasping at the pain in his ribs. "STOP!"

"Tony!" He could no longer see the woman, only the angry blue eyes of Muscle Guy as he pressured his elbow against his collarbone to hold him down. He howled, writhing more than ever at the pain as they continued to argue and words like 'sedation' and 'restraints' filtered in and out of range. He swallowed back another cry of fear or pain, too confused to think about what was happening, and managed to lift the older man by several inches in his panicked struggle. "DEAN!" He didn't remember screaming, but heard his own voice over the pounding in his ears. "Get –OFF!" He bucked again. "DEAN!"

---

"'You hear that?" Dean's head whipped to the open door in reflex to the faint but present sound of what he thought was screaming, rewarding him with a sharp pain in his side.

"Fuck," he ground out in response to a rather forceful stitch, glaring hard at the ancient excuse of a doctor in the middle of closing the gap between his skin. Even if the cut wasn't much of a threat, it was still wide enough and deep enough to require seven, unparallel, painful stitches.

"Maybe if you quit moving so much," he muttered back, "and actually let us give you something for the pain instead of –"

"I said no more pain killers," Dean reiterated with a grimace as the man began to tie off the excess. "Trust me. I got enough of those when I was out for the count. Besides, I'm fine."

The man merely replied with a frown, swiftly cutting away remaining material and pressing a fair amount of gauze firmly to the wound, eliciting a sharp intake of breath on Dean's part. "You were stabbed," the doctor let out in a methodic form of speech. "Twice," he added as he removed the gauze to place a clean square in its spot, quickly layering and taping it securely to the already purpling skin surrounding his handiwork. "You call that fine?"

"Once," Dean corrected impatiently, hurting too badly to care much for the old man, Hank, Hanksbrough, something or other, "I was stabbed once," Dean motioned to his shoulder, not in the mood to find out how exactly moving it would feel. "This," he winced in response to the doctor's unsympathetic treatment as he applied the final amount of bandaging, "was a graze."

"You're really out there, kid," the old man grumbled, drawing away with an even heavier frown than before.

"You have no idea," Dean nodded in all honesty.

"But," he continued, swiveling in his chair to locate a form of sorts. He began scribbling something against the counter. "I'm writing you a prescription for the pain. You will purchase these and you will take them, you hear?"

Dean just nodded, flashing an insincere grin as he accepted the slip with his left hand. "Aye, aye, Doc." The doctor gave Dean a once over, smacking his lips at a loss for what to say in response to the long since healed scars marring Dean's conditioned chest and unknowingly prompted the Winchester to pull himself to his feet. He grappled for his shirt, raising his lip in disgust to its torn and bloodied condition before slowly shrugging his way into it, wary of his shoulder and the pulse of pain it sent traveling down his spine.

"Kid," the doctor started again, standing to full height with an unprecedented amount of pity in his eyes. And God, did Dean really hate being called 'kid' right now.

He held up his hand to stop the beginning of whatever monologue the old guy was planning. "Doc, if you even think about giving me the speech, I swear to God, I'm gonna –" Dean paused, jerking his head to the door a second time. He shifted his eyes to the doctor's, keeping his head tilted toward the exit. "You heard it that time, right?"

The doctor gave an exasperated sigh before the screaming rose in volume with a clear message bounding against the hospital's depressing walls and echoing mercilessly through Dean's pounding skull. It was Dean's name. Worse, it was Sam's voice. Dean's heart skipped a beat, the light went momentarily gray, and he couldn't make his feet move as fast as he desperately needed them to. "Sammy?" He couldn't remember saying his brother's name aloud. All he knew was that Sam was screaming and Sam didn't scream; not like that.

The doctor moved to give some form of assistance, but Dean was already sucking down a breath and halfway through the door. "Mr. Winchester, if you could just –" Dean shrugged away from the touch, pulse beating far too loudly in his ears as he quickened his already jogging pace through the maze of halls in search of the origin of his brother's cry. And holy fuck, Sam had just screamed his name louder than he had since he was too young to know an empty grocery store isle didn't mean he was completely abandoned, which is exactly how hopelessly alone he happened to have sounded. But then, Dean really had left his little brother, his unquestionably traumatized little brother, alone. He left Sam on his own with a horde of strangers in a hospital he knew Sam would automatically hate with the same intensity he despised the very thought of the all too memorable buildings. He ached in more ways than one as a helpless desire gripped his insides in a tangle of painful knots.

"Get –OFF!"

Dean skidded to a halt, twisting his head in the direction of the obscured order and nearly sprinting for the far end of the hall. The hair on the back of his neck stood in response to the sheer panic lacing his brother's cracking voice.

"DEAN!"

He had the door open before he remembered reaching it, halfway to the bed before he could fully comprehend what exactly he was seeing. His mouth went dry as he stopped in his tracks, fingers twitching in anticipation. A guy around his age, and not just some gangly intern, but a big ass grizzly kind of guy, was half on top of a violently struggling Sam, needle in hand.

"Let him go," He couldn't hear himself over the ringing in his ears, but knew he was

shouting, knew why everything suddenly had a tinge of red to it. "NOW!"

Sam's eyes snapped to the edge of the curtain where Dean stood, pale and rigid with a hand pressed hard to his side above a neat, white bandage he could see peeking from beneath the edge of his unbuttoned shirt, and he couldn't help but sag with relief. "Dea –" He was cut off as the full weight of Tony fell abruptly against him, and all he could do was whimper through the forced rush of air that expelled from his lungs and blink through the eruption of black spots in his vision. He was vaguely aware of the slight lift in pressure and the not-so empty threats Dean was shouting before he even tugged the man away; which, Sam was quite certain, was the only plausible explanation for the sudden removal of Tony. More shouting and the addition of an authoritative feminine voice, maybe two others, managed to reach his ringing ears, and then everything was startlingly quiet.

A weight to his right slowly sank into the bedding and a soft, familiar touch eased itself across his cheek and through his hair. "'You okay, Sammy?"

He leaned into the palm that now rested against his cheek and nodded with a sigh. If Dean was there then everything really would be okay. He blinked back spots and looked warily in his brother's direction, noting the blood caking certain areas of his clothing in stains of carnage, and released a gasp before he could remember exactly what caused them. "Oh crap, Dean, you're –"

"Fine and totally taken care of," Dean interrupted with a small smile that did next to nothing to calm Sam's flustered nerves.

He bit back the need to cry by slowly pulling himself up. Dean assisted just enough to situate Sam's back against his front, allowing his brother to turn into the crook of his neck, nestled beneath his chin for comfort, and wrapped his arms around him in a protective embrace. He almost lost Sam, repeatedly, one too many times in a single night, and that simply wasn't going to happen ever again. "I'm sorry, Sam," he breathed out a sigh, shifting for a better hold on his brother, "I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

Sam nodded slowly, just wanting to calm down his racing heart and pretend everything was just some bizarre form of a nightmare. But it wasn't. He blinked sluggishly at the blue curtain and hugged his arms around Dean's. "I thought it was a dream from when he knocked me out," he whispered quietly with a nervous pitch to his voice. Dean tightened his hold on Sam's form and dug his own face into his hair. "I thought you might still be..." Sam drew in a breath, "But you weren't, you were there but," he paused to hold back the uncertainty in his body and the wavering of his voice but only managed to make things worse, "you couldn't have been because you weren't, you were –"

"Breathe," Dean instructed, running his hand up and down Sam's suddenly shaking arm, more worried than he'd ever allow his voice to reveal. "You aren't making much sense, kiddo."

Sam nodded a little and took a shaky breath. "I'm just –" he sighed half-contentedly and shrugged himself a bit lower to rest more heavily against Dean, praying his brother's usual self wouldn't wake up and make him move. "I'm just tired and want to go home," he smiled sadly and let his eyes drop sleepily, "where ever it is we're going when this is over."

"Sam," Dean started, frowning at his suddenly fragile sibling.

"I don't want to..." He whispered back, turning against Dean's side for more warmth and security, "I just wanna sleep right now, okay?"

Dean opened his mouth to protest but could feel the way Sam sank wholly against him and decided whatever it was Sam had to say he could say when he woke up. "Okay, Sammy," he complied, hating that Sam had to wake up alone in the first place, "I'll be here."

Sam sniffed and nodded again. "Thanks," he sighed more than whispered all the things he couldn't say and let himself sink into the comfort of his brother and the promise of at least a few minutes rest. And as he fell asleep to the methodic way Dean ran his hand through his hair, he felt safe for the first time in what seemed like a long time, and everything, if only for the moment, was just distant enough to have been nothing but a bad dream.

---

Dean was ticked. No, Dean was pissed. It had been an hour before Sam was fully checked out and diagnosed as 'lucky' with a cracked rib and a seriously bruised abdomen, a sprained wrist, black eye, twelve stitches, and a moderate concussion, and another three hours since they had been moved to the waiting room while their father had his shoulder fixed and a leg reset. Sam had a few questions about the two crazies and head nurse from earlier and snorted half-heartedly at Dean's Cujo quip before growing increasingly antsy and scooting significantly closer as the minutes ticked too slowly by. And if they couldn't leave within the next fifteen minutes, Dean was simply taking Sam with him.

He glared hard at an elderly woman whose worried stare in Sam's direction would have him flinching in irrational fear the second he took notice. And God, did Dean hate that. He shrugged his arm a little tighter around his brother's shoulders with a blunt scowl to the woman, prompting her to turn away with a quick glare of her own. Sam only nestled a little closer and breathed a sleepy sigh into his shoulder that had Dean itching to hurt anything and everything by how vulnerable Sam had somehow become. He had fallen asleep a half hour ago and Dean would be damned if Sam woke up thanks to some ancient being across the room when he could be catching some well deserved Z's and on his way to escaping whatever the hell was going through his head.

Adrenaline was long gone and shock was well on its way to fading out of existence, and that sucked a little too much to stand. Dean scrubbed a hand furiously at his eyes to hold back either sleep or tears of frustration, uncertain of whether he really wanted to know which. Sam almost died only a few hours ago. His little brother had almost fucking died, and Dean was almost too late, and Dad was almost too slow, and damn it, Sammy almost died. He exhaled slowly and tugged Sam a little closer to rest his own head against the top of his as if the contact alone would somehow mean everything was fine, even if it really wasn't. Sam was obviously terrified by the idea of seeing Dad and had yet to say a word on what exactly happened before they made it to the hotel, just kept an eye on strangers and stuck close to Dean.

And it drove Dean mad that he couldn't do a thing to fix it.

---

Dean rapped twice on the window with a quick glance to the cracked doorway several yards from the car. After several half-truths to a couple of cops, an awkwardly cramped cab ride, and understatedly short stop at the destroyed hotel, the Winchesters had managed to get at least a few miles away from the hell site but didn't really have a choice on leaving town. They had taken the Impala on Dean's insistence, but permanently leaving John's truck, even with the slight adjustments to its load Dean had been sure to make, was not in anyone's best interest. Instead they would lay low for a couple of days, wait until they could mostly drive safely, and get as fucking far out 'a dodge as they wanted. That was the plan and it would work if they could make it through the couple of days part in one piece.

He lost patience on the third tap and simply opened the door.

"Rise and shine, kiddo," Dean found himself whispering. "Come on, Sammy."

Sam mumbled something incoherent and shifted to face Dean's voice, shivering at the sudden draft of wind. Dean cast a quick glance to the cracked door of their motel, thankfully not red but chipping blue in its color, and back to Sam. He had helped Dad get inside against his wishes and figured he could take Sam inside before bothering with their bags. Besides, it was cold.

He crouched down to tug against Sam's shoulder in hopes of rotating him into a more pliable position when his eyes snapped open in reflex. Sam's fingers dug into his already raw wrist and Dean couldn't help but wince in response. "Sam, look," Dean bit out, careful to keep his arm in Sam's grip, "look at me. It's me okay? Look, you're okay."

Sam's eyes drifted to his and Dean let out a breath of relief when they faded from panicked to confused. He pulled his arm gently from his brother's fingers and settled both hands at the cuff of his neck. "We're at another motel okay?" Sam nodded mutely. "You can go back to sleep, just not inside my car." He pulled himself out of the passenger side and tugged on Sam's shoulder a second time. "That means go inside, Webster."

Sam rolled his eyes in response as he unfolded himself and slowly rose to his feet, wincing at the pain any form of movement seemed to cause. "Why didn't it hurt this much before now?" he grumbled, wrapping an arm around his middle.

"It's called adrenaline," Dean piped in, shutting the door behind Sam and ushering him forward with a slight push to his back, not expecting the knee-buckling response his brother's body involuntarily fell into. He wrapped an arm around his waist, careful of Sam's ribs, before he had a chance to reach the ground. "Which you evidentially lost all feel for," he added matter-of-factly. Sam nodded belatedly, blinking hard with his head down. Dean shifted to view his face. "You good?"

"'M tired, Dean," Sam mumbled, leaning against him for support.

"I know, Sammy," he agreed and began propelling them forward. "It's okay, man. You can rest as soon as we get through that door." When Sam just stumbled in reaction and shivered through another gust of wind, Dean tugged a little more and managed to get them to the door. Just as he stepped through, Sam went completely lax.

"Whoa," Dean let out, catching Sam a second time, "the floor does not equal bed, Sherlock."

"You said," Sam grinned sleepily, "soon as we get through the door."

"Consider it rephrased," Dean ground out, half carrying Sam to the bed farthest from the door, casting his barely conscious father a furtive glance. He let Sam sink, boneless, to his side with a ruffle to his hair and pulled his shoes off without a word, simultaneously pulling the comforter over his shoulders. "I'm gonna get our crap, okay?

Sam nodded into his pillow, eyes already closed, intent on sleeping for years.

Dean was sure to shut the door behind him on his way out, determined to keep the temperature above the freezing degrees of outside air, and made his way to the trunk of the car. He shouldered Sam's bag and hoisted his own overtop of it. His fingers lingered over the strap of his father's, willing his pulse to slow. Sam almost died. He pulled the bulky tote over the lip of the trunk and rested it at his feet to get a better grip. Sam almost died. Dean bent to lift the bag, slamming shut and locking the back as he turned to face their room. Sam almost fucking died. The world came too close to ending to pretend everything was alright all of the time, even if it hurt just as much or more to acknowledge its existence. He swallowed nervously and ran a hand over his eyes. It didn't end and it wouldn't end; he wouldn't let it. Dean released a breath he couldn't recall holding and opened the door.

His heart skipped a beat. "Sam?" His dad was out, medicated in his sleep, but Sam was sitting rigid, expression caught in a cross between shock and fear, with white knuckles gripping the headboard to keep him steady. Dean had dropped their bags, barely shut the door, and made it to Sam's eye level before he had time to consider another option. He hesitantly placed a hand on Sam's elbow when he refused to meet his frantic gaze, uncurled his fingers from the wood. "Hey."

His attention traveled slowly from Dean's shoulder where his father's image had been to Dean's eyes, softening their deadened gleam into heightened windows of emotion. He shuddered through a breath before simply closing his eyes. "I thought," Sam sputtered, "when I – when I woke up I just remembered Dad and the mirror, but it wasn't the same room and –"

"You have a concussion," Dean supplied, squeezing his arm. "You're bound to be a little fuzzy." Sam nodded uncertainly, accepting Dean's assistance to swing his legs back beneath the blanket. "Just get some sleep, okay?" But Sam's hand encircled his wrist before he could step away, tightening marginally when he shifted far enough to give Sam a view of their father. He stared hard at Dean, blinked to keep from looking to the far side of the room.

"I can't," he said with wide eyes. "My head won't let me."

Dean sat evenly on the bed, hip to Sam's side. "Sam –"

"Every time I see him, I see the shapeshifter," Sam admitted. "And I know it isn't. I know it, but my head, it doesn't seem to get it, and I can't make it stop. I just want it to stop. I don't even think about it being something else, not until I remember that I didn't before."

"You didn't what?" Dean asked, toeing off his boots.

"Didn't think about it, didn't know," he whispered, allowing his eyes to shift to John. "I didn't know at first. I didn't even consider it and I should have. I should have known."

"Consider what?" Dean's brow furrowed, "That Dad was a shapeshifter?"

Sam nodded, defeated, and that irked Dean almost as much as the stares they got in the hospital.

"Why the hell would you, though? If he just came in like usual, baddy toasted, job done, why would you?"

Sam's breath caught in his throat, eyes darting to their father and back to Dean, visibly filling even in the darkness. "He said that, he – and I didn't –" He clamped his mouth shut as if the action to hold everything in, swallowed.

"Hey," Dean put a hand to his upper arm, thumbed his shoulder, "you're okay, alright?"

"I just want it to stop," he said brokenly, and a little bit of Dean broke too.

"It'll be okay, Sam," Dean supplied, shifting himself and maneuvering a compliant Sam to pull his own legs under the heavy covering. Sam twisted to lean his forehead into Dean's shoulder but remained stiff, breathing as evenly as his catching throat would allow. "Whatever it is that happened, it'll –"

"He said you were dead, Dean," Sam barely managed to whisper. "He was Dad and he said you were dead and it was my fault because I distracted you and I always distract you." Dean stiffened before he could think of something to do. His own breath caught on a growing lump in his throat when a soft cry penetrated Sam's words. "And then he wasn't Dad and Dad was dead and it made too much sense because he wouldn't have been alive if Dad was still alive, and if you were still alive you wouldn't have let him come. And I didn't have time to find anything, he just kept coming and I couldn't go anywhere and it just didn't matter anymore because what else was I going to do? Who else was left? And –" He broke off with a stifled sob, "you were really dead..."

Dean pulled Sam to him, guiding his brother's head to rest against his chest, to feel the steady beat of his heart. Sam just dug closer, releasing another sob he couldn't hold in. "I'm right here, Sammy, and we're all okay," was all Dean could say. "We're okay."

"It was like I couldn't wake up," Sam muttered quietly. "And it was real. God, Dean, I can't – I couldn't, if you weren't –"

Dean ran his thumb against Sam's temple, shushed him with a shake of his head. "I'm right here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. This isn't happening again. I won't let it." Sam nodded slowly, breathed shakily in, and Dean gave Sam's arm a shake with his shoulder, ignoring how much it hurt, "You did good, okay? You fought the bastard or the place wouldn't have been trashed."

Sam just nodded and tightened his own hold on Dean's shirt. He felt ridiculous, knew Dean had to be itching to shove him off, but couldn't help but burrow as close as possible. Fear continued to pound through his chest. "'M sorry," he whispered.

"'Got nothin' to be sorry for," he answered methodically, earnestly. "Get some sleep, okay? Nothing's gonna happen." Dean's fingers were running through Sam's hair again and he knew he could sink into the warmth, let himself sleep, if he could just forget the feeling, the weight of his father's words.

"I can't," he whimpered, fighting back more tears. Every time he let his eyes shut he saw Dean dead, forever absent, and his father's face contort with cruelty and rage.

"You can," Dean insisted against the top of his scalp, "you can."

Sam shook his head. He didn't care how childish he was being or how irrational he was approaching things; all Sam wanted was for the night to go away. He wanted to ask about their mom, about the fire, but couldn't bring himself to start a subject he knew Dean would never not be sensitive to. He wanted to pretend he didn't know what his dad had kept secret from him, and he wanted even more to pretend that this was a lie. He knew it was nearly morning, knew they would sleep through the day, and knew the shapeshifter was dead and gone, but he couldn't erase the images, the sounds, or the bone-deep feelings. All he could do was hold on hard enough and hope it kept him from blowing away.

"You're okay, Sam," Dean promised in more ways than one, reaching out and touching what Sam needed the most. "Nothing bad is gonna happen as long as I'm around, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm gonna be right here."

Sam relaxed in that assurance because he knew he didn't have to hold on anymore. John slept soundlessly in his drugged slumber, too quiet for his father, but hidden from view. Dean was there, holding him, keeping him steady above the surface as he sifted fingers through his hair and whispered promises into his ear. He didn't need to say as much and Dean didn't have to voice it all to get a point across. Dean's promises were different than other promises.

"I've got you, Sammy" he reminded Sam, "I've got you."

Because when it came to Sam, no matter the circumstance, Dean kept his promises.

"I know," he breathed, still feeling the ache, but knowing it would dim with time. Whether he remembered to hold on or not, Dean would always be there to lift him back up. Dean would keep him grounded, no matter what. "I know."

Though it took a while and hurt a while longer, Sam managed to fall asleep, free of the night's terrors and safe in Dean's promises and the simple relief in knowing his brother would still be there when he opened his eyes.

---

**Q:** did you happen to catch all that foreshadowing for AHBL and on? that's right; I'm pure evil.  
**endings:** we know Sam knows about his mother in the real plot, but I thought it would be a little fun to play with the exact way he came to find out. he obviously needs to hear this from his own family, get the whole story, but will he have the guts to ask? and when? - finger waggles subliminal messages - all will one day soon be addressed.  
**thanks again:** you all rock too hard to define with the english language! I hope you enjoyed the painstakingly slow ride!


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